


Just One Hundred Memories {For You}

by melonsflesh



Series: For Richer or Poorer [1]
Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Domestic, Drabbles, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonsflesh/pseuds/melonsflesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's amazing what time and a new chance can do.</i>  </p><p>-</p><p>A series of one-shots featuring Misaki and Saruhiko, based on the <a href="http://100themewriters.deviantart.com/art/The-Original-List-of-Themes-125161634">100 Themes Challenge</a>. Some are connected, but can be read separately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misaki visits Saruhiko in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional warnings for this chapter:** hospitalization, mentions of poisoning.
> 
> Also, Misaki and Saruhiko are _not_ in an established relationship in this chapter, as this serves as a prologue.

**To turn back in time is a luxury they can’t afford, but to _introduce_ themselves one more time...**

\- - - - - - - - - -

“You’re the biggest idiot!” Misaki sputters between gasps, “Stupid!”

His voice trembles with a mixture of despair and anger, but he doesn’t cry, despite the stinging burn in his eyes. He’s too angry, too enraged to shed tears, and he won’t allow the people whom he trusted Saruhiko’s safety with to pity him when he exits the room.

Misaki is terribly late, but there, at last.

It doesn’t surprise Saruhiko that Misaki is late and it doesn’t surprise him that Misaki _knows_ , either; Saruhiko isn't immune to what rumors may spread of him, after all. But it does surprise him that Misaki is there in the first place, five minutes before the strict visiting hours are over, bursting into his hospital room with visible terror in his face and agitated pupils that ask too many questions but none of which leaves his mouth.

Misaki chooses not to ask, but to state facts instead, “Asshole,” he continues, and Saruhiko has to turn his head to glance at the window to hide what little surprise he’s allowing his face to expose. He feels the weight of the mattress shift when Misaki’s hands press firmly against the sheets, as if it would help his harsh words to burn deeper into Saruhiko’s memory.But it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t change the fact that the redhead’s curses are too hot and vivid in his ears for him to think he’s being delusional and that the real Misaki isn’t just a few inches away from him.

“F-for going with them,” Misaki adds, and his voice breaks, “when they don’t give a shit about you, they don’t...”

Saruhiko weakly clicks his tongue and feigns a bitter laugh, but he can’t find the strength to leash the words that slip past his lips.

“Tch, and you would,” he retorts with a hoarse sigh as he chokes on his own breath, because he immediately regrets it and wishes Misaki hasn’t heard, because it’s not about what Misaki _would_ do; he doesn’t want to involve Misaki, he can’t—won’t test his luck by asking Misaki to _go ahead_ , see if he’s able to do what others, according to him, cannot.

“I could,” Misaki mumbles as he seems to be pondering his words carefully and glances down at Saruhiko’s extended arm, ignoring how pale his skin looks against the clear hospital sheets.

“What?”

“I could... take care of you. Protect you.”

Misaki doesn’t meet his gaze and Saruhiko wants to laugh or cry, whichever comes first, but the stupor doesn’t let him. He thinks the medication isn’t supposed to make him hallucinate, or that the nails digging into his palms should have been enough to wake him from any state of unconsciousness.

When Misaki stares at the reddened bruises and scrapes across Saruhiko’s knuckles, he finds he doesn’t mind laying a hand on top of his, and Saruhiko finds he might want to keep it there.

He notices Misaki’s frown and lets out a soft, inaudible laugh, because for all the times Saruhiko had seen him frown at him, he thinks Misaki really shouldn’t look like that. It doesn’t suit a man who lives to take on the world.

“Excuse me.”

He also notices how Misaki doesn’t let go when the nurse comes in.

“Ah, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, “I’ll have to ask you to come back tomorrow, sir.”

Saruhiko feels the need to laugh at her witty choice of words, because to ask Misaki to come back is to ask Misaki to come back to _see_ _him_ , and the last time they crossed each other’s path, six months ago, Misaki wouldn’t even have dreamed to want to see him—so he thinks.

_Because it’s difficult to dream when you’re fighting for your life._

_Right, Misaki?_

Misaki nods, and his hands retract as he turns to leave.

“Misaki,” the name feels natural and alive against Saruhiko’s tongue, and when Misaki turns around and flashes him a grin, Saruhiko wishes it isn’t the medication, that it isn’t a hallucination, that he could find the words to justify him calling his name, that idiot’s name—

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

But Misaki couldn’t be back. People who leave never come back.

And when he’s gone, Saruhiko’s fists clench at his sides.

Because this pitiful state isn’t what he wants Misaki to see, even if it’s what allows Saruhiko to see him.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“He... he likes seedless grapes. And green apples. Not red. The more sour the better,” Misaki explains to the nurse once outside.

“Alright! I’ll let the doctors know,” she replies with a gentle nod and a bright smile that reassures Misaki that Saruhiko is supposedly left in good hands. “Thank you.”

The _Tundra Woman_ is still standing at the end of the long corridor, as serene and composed as she was when she gave Misaki permission to reach her subordinate’s room, and he exchanges a final glance with her from afar before leaving.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The next day, Saruhiko wakes up ridiculously late. It’s eleven in the morning when the nurse slowly opens the door to check on him for what it seems like the umpteenth time, and she’s greeted with Saruhiko’s relaxed gaze.

“Ah, Fushimi-kun, you’re awake. Someone came to see you,” she says as she enters the room and places a tray with a bowl with a few slices of apples on the small table next to the bed.

_Green apples, huh._

After seeking for Saruhiko’s confirmation —a slight nod—, another figure emerges from the other side of the door, raising a hand to wave at him, “Yo.”

This time, Misaki isn’t late, and it doesn’t surprise Saruhiko that Misaki is there; it should, but Misaki _is_ the spitting image of tenacity and —sometimes— a pain in the ass, so it doesn’t. Whatever.

“You have some time before the doctor comes to check on you,” she adds, “If you’ll excuse me.”

When the nurse leaves, Misaki takes a seat in the chair next to his bed and the world narrows to the two of them once again.

“So, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“The doctors say you’ll have to wait a few more days. Maybe four,” he says, never asking _why_ Saruhiko is there in the first place, and Saruhiko looks at him dead in the eye—since when does Misaki know more about him than he does?

Misaki mistakes his silence for confusion, “For some exams—”

“Routine preventive exams,” Saruhiko sighs, “That’s their policy. If it were up to me I’d get out of here right now.”

“Y-yeah but... you can’t, so try to relax for now.”

“I can’t really _relax_. There’s going to be a hell of... paperwork,” he mumbles as he lays his head back and closes his eyes. “And reports to do.”

“Well, that can wait, right?”

“The Lieutenant won’t wait.”

Misaki falls silent. Saruhiko reopens his eyes and notices the redhead’s lips are pressed into a sullen line, and for a fleeting moment, he sees a mirror of his past self in the way Misaki sulks at the mere mention of _someone_ he doesn’t seem to like, even if his previous, brief interaction with _her_ made it easier for him to have access to Saruhiko’s room.

“Misaki,” he calls, drawing his attention, and after a deliberate stillness and seconds of indefinite staring into each other’s unblinking eyes, he asked, “Why?”

_Why did you come? Why are you still here? Why are you doing this?_

_What are you doing?_

“Hell if I know,” Misaki responds, to all and none of his questions at the same time, and avoids his gaze. “Don't ask dumb questions.”

There’s only silence, and a couple of affable minutes of effectively not asking questions and watching the sunlight seep through the blinds of the window, when Misaki points at the tray on the bedside table.

“You’re gonna eat that? They’re getting brown.”

“You want them?”

“Huh? W-well, I’m just... a _bit_ hungry, but,” he hesitates, “just eat them, okay?”

Saruhiko has to make a special effort to not let Misaki’s amusing bashfulness curve his lips.

“I can’t eat them anyway.”

“Hah? Why?”

“I can’t,” the swordsman mutters, forcing the traces of mischief to stay away from the surface of his voice. “My hands are still numb. I can't do it by myself.”

“Saru... you’re gonna be okay—”

“Feed me, Misaki.”

Misaki's eyes widen, questioningly so as his brain registers and analyzes the request, but there isn’t a single drop of doubt in Saruhiko’s words and the sheer seriousness and sobriety in his —pleading?— expression convinces him.

Swallowing every little sign of hesitation, Misaki takes one piece of apple and lifts it to Saruhiko’s mouth with a soft, “Open up.”

But Saruhiko cannot help but react with a snort that leaves his companion disoriented and confused.

“I’m kidding, Misaki.”

“Eh—”

“You’re so gullible. You can still do it, though.”

“F-fuck you. You’re the worst.”

Saruhiko can’t stop the sudden pleasure from tickling his throat and neither can he help but let it free, savoring the satisfaction deep within his chest as he erupts in a genuine laughter, as if he had been longing for it for a long time, as if he had remembered the petty reason the both of them were still alive.

One of the nurses knocks on the door before coming in, momentarily interrupting the bliss of the spell around them.

“Fushimi-kun? The doctor is here,” she announces before glancing down at the notes on her clipboard, and turns to look at Misaki, who quickly straightens his back and braces his fists on his knees to stand up.

“I-I’ll wait outside!”

And so he does.

\- - - - - - - - - -

It’s Saruhiko and the nurse alone once again, when she says, “You can ask to extend the visiting time, if you want.”

“Huh?”

“Things have been a bit... rough, lately. It’s especially more crowded than usual, so we’ve been forced to cut the visiting hours,” she admits and Saruhiko blinks, doesn’t quite get _why_ she’s telling him such details, so his silence remains. “He’s your friend, right? Fushimi-kun is quite the heavy sleeper, it seems. But that boy’s been here since really early.”

Omitting her initial question —Saruhiko wasn’t sure _what_ Misaki and him were—, Saruhiko contemplates the second part. Heavy sleeper? It’s actually the opposite, that’s why Misaki came earlier.

“No,” he stammers, but says no more.

The nurse holds a pair of recently folded towels in her arms, ready to leave, and before she’s out of the room, she turns to face him, her final proposal ending with a subtle wink of an eye, “So think about it, ne?”

\- - - - - - - - - -

“How’d it go?”

“Boring.”

Medical speeches bore him. There isn’t much else to explain; he was told they wanted to make sure the bruises on his back weren’t as severe as they were when he first came, and that he would be dismissed in a few days—next Sunday, perhaps, just as Misaki said, bla, bla, bla.

“Hah. So everything’s okay.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t even think about the nurse’s previous suggestion. It’s Wednesday. Days are long, and he still has three more to go.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The next day, Misaki, who keeps coming into his room despite having to face the doubtful, distrusting looks of the blues in the main lobby, emphasizes the obvious.

“Oi, you didn’t eat anything yet?” he asks, because there’s a new bowl on the tray, with a pretty number of fresh pieces of apples that Saruhiko hasn’t even touched. “You don’t actually think I’m going to feed you,” he adds with a scowl before staring at the bowl, when it finally clicks in his head that the green skin is there, in every slice. “Didn’t they take the peel off yesterday... wait.”

“Tch.”

“Don’t tell me you won’t eat them unless—”

“I’m _not_ hungry.”

“You’re a shitty liar, Saru. After all this hospital food you must be starving! Open up!” Misaki demands as he menacingly attempts to shove a piece of fruit into Saruhiko’s mouth.

“Oi, cut it out.”

“Not until you eat them, dumbass. They’re just apples.”

“I don’t want them.”

“Open your mouth—the skin’s good for you!”

“Stop it already!”

“Dammit, Saru—!”

“Fushimi-kun.”

A third masculine voice, unheard by Misaki in a long time but well recorded in his mind, and coated with a solemn and almost portentous timbre, intrudes their innocent and frivolous yet _significant_ bickering.

“And also _Yatagarasu_. Or should I say... Yata Misaki,” Munakata Reisi adds.

“You—you _bastard_!”

Misaki snaps, recognizes the pompous tone that matches the one in that singular well inside his head where only bitter memories linger before even turning around, and feels the sudden rancorous taste of vengeance rushing through his veins, the brutal need to stomp on _that guy_ ’s face that dares to show up before them with no visible hints of remorse.

How dare he leave the scene unscathed, how dare he mock them with his phlegmatic presence when the bruises along Saruhiko’s hands have turned as dark as the uniform he boasts about, how dare he—

Misaki lunges at him, his fists quickly clenching around the ascot over his shirt, and growls, “You finally show your face, huh?!” and even though he manages to wipe the smile off the Blue King’s face, it riles him up that Munakata isn’t even fighting, as if accepting his fate in the hands of, _fuck yeah_ , Yatagarasu. So be it then.

Misaki thinks he hears Saruhiko calling for him— _that’s right_ , Saruhiko must be encouraging his actions, his anger, his intention of giving that bastard what he deserves—

“ _Misaki_!”

Except Saruhiko is _not_ —he raises his voice, _loud_ and firm, and utters the vanguard’s name for a second time, and when Misaki turns to look at him, seeking in those eyes a sign of complicity and approval that Saruhiko can’t respond to, Saruhiko lowers his gaze instead, and if Misaki doesn’t cry, despite the stinging burn in his eyes, is because he’s too angry, too enraged to shed tears.

But when his hands let go, Saruhiko’s eyes are back on him, and for the first time since Misaki came to see him, Saruhiko _sees_ fragments of tears welling up in the corner of the redhead’s eyes before he takes a step back and walks out the room.

The door closes with a soft click.

“Still as spirited as ever, I see,” Munakata observes when Misaki is gone. “That’s good news.”

“Yeah.”

“This room seems livelier too, compared to the first time I came.”

“It’s not like a lot happened in one day.”

“Did it not?”

Munakata’s face is graced with a smile when Saruhiko clicks his tongue, and takes some steps forward, making his way to the small closet on the other side of the room. “For when you're leaving,” he explains as he places down a small bag that Saruhiko identifies as a change of casual clothes his Captain must have gotten from his dorm.

“What about the fugitives?”

“Thanks to your squadron’s efforts, the culprits were apprehended,” Munakata responds, offering him a serene, apologetic smile. “Although the havoc they caused left me with no choice but to attend some matters personally. I would have loved to come yesterday.”

“That’s fine. I didn’t ask anyone to come. That goes for you, too.”

“I imagined you would say that,” he lowers his gaze, gracious smile still plastered on his face. “Well, everyone will be thrilled to hear that you can join us again tomorrow. We should probable arrange a welcome-back party, hm...”

Taking a hand to his chin, Munakata meditates on the joyous idea in his head, momentarily missing the surprise on Saruhiko’s mien.

“Tomorrow?” Saruhiko asks, “I thought I wouldn’t be out until Sunday.”

“Oh, that’s right. All results were within normal limits, so I was informed no further examination was necessary,” he pauses, “Ah, my apologies. Perhaps you wanted the doctor to be the first to tell you personally.”

“No, it’s okay,” he says, and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks about yesterday, about the nurse’s suggestion, since it’s Thursday and he has few hours left to go.

Munakata catches him lost in his own thoughts, having sensed a _different_ spark of dullness in his voice, that doesn’t match the one Saruhiko is usually associated with, and hums, “Mm? I thought you would be eager to leave.”

Saruhiko’s tone is monotonous, “Yes. The faster the better.”

“Really? In that case, I should go,” Saruhiko’s perplexed gaze quickly meets his as he continues, “I believe there’s another person who’s more worth your time.”

“Tch. Do as you want.”

“Then, we’ll see each other soon. Excuse me.”

Just as Munakata’s hand rests on the handle of the door, Saruhiko rolls his eyes, sensing his Captain isn’t opening the door, turning around one last time instead.

“Ah, although a welcome-back party sounds thrilling, you should probably take a few days off.”

“I’m fine. This is nothing.”

“Mm, but the doctors agree,” he continues, omitting Saruhiko’s protests, “that it is advisable to stay a few days in a rather relaxed, precious place before getting back to work.”

_Somewhere precious?_

“Do you have anywhere in mind?” Munakata asks.

Saruhiko doesn’t—can’t respond to that, because there’s only incertitude, when he should be able to reply with conviction.

“I’ll take care of _Subaru_ for you,” Munakata smiles, “See you soon, Fushimi-kun.”

“Yeah.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki impatiently takes a peek through Saruhiko’s door.

“Is he gone?” he asks, despite having seen the Blue King leave the building with his own eyes, and doesn’t wait for confirmation, shamelessly inviting himself to the room.

“This isn’t your house, you know.”

“No. _My_ house is way better,” he jokes, “and doesn’t reek of latex.”

Saruhiko wonders; he had always imagined a mess when he thought of Misaki’s room—a pool of crumpled clothes instead of water, and dust, and asphalt, and autumn leaves. But now he wonders what it really looks like, after all these years.

Would it fit more than one person—

“Hey,” Misaki says, glancing at his wrist watch, “Kusanagi-san called. He wants me to do something for him.”

Kusanagi-san, who is still young, but was always too old nonetheless to get involved in their insolent squabbles; who would always wear a smile on his face despite the sorrow clawing his life; who would care little about Saruhiko’s motives.

“Ugh, that freak boss of yours stayed for a long time,” he scowls, “so, uh... I’ll be back later, ‘kay?”

Saruhiko averts his eyes, “Do what you want.”

“You better eat your dinner before I’m back.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki huffs for the thousandth time because there’s _nothing_ on TV; nothing he’s interesting in, at least. And he can’t nag Saruhiko about his diet either because he had already eaten his dinner by the time he got back.

“Oi.”

And he’s been shaking his head back and forth for about a whole minute, until Saruhiko’s voice jerks him awake.

“Go ask for a pillow, idiot.”

“What pillow,” Misaki mutters absently, his drowsy eyes widening abruptly when he actually registered the word. “Pillow? Wait... r-really?”

“Tch. Don’t _ask_.”

Misaki’s jaw hangs open and he asks anyway, “I-I can stay here?” his voice coated with a layer of something that sounds close to hope, maybe.

Saruhiko is too busy ignoring him and biting his lower lip, and Misaki takes that as a _maybe_ , _if you’re not too loud_ — _I don’t know_ or _do whatever you want_.

“If you go now and fall asleep in the streets, people are going to blame it on me,” Saruhiko says with gritted teeth.

“I-I’ll be right back!” Misaki exclaims, jumping from the chair with a visible excitement he doesn’t mind exposing.

When Misaki is back, there’s a white pillow under his arm and the scene is absolutely adorable and ridiculously amusing, too, but Saruhiko doesn’t even think of commenting on it.

They don’t talk about anything that has to do with Saruhiko’s current condition. They happen to stumble across some robot anime on TV instead, with spectacular three-dimensional transformations and some weird plot Misaki is fascinated with, even though he doesn’t get more than Saruhiko does, until they doze off.

\- - - - - - - - - -

When Saruhiko wakes up, at four a.m., Misaki is still there, sitting on the uncomfortable chair, while the pillow lies on the floor.

He looks down at the sleeping figure, at Misaki’s head resting peacefully on his folded arms on the bed, at his closed eyes, hidden beneath strands of chestnut hair, and remembers the storm.

He remembers six months ago, when the fugitive Strain lunged at his back and Misaki shoved him aside to take the blow in his stead. He remembers when a venomous curtain engulfed Misaki's body whole and poisoned his skin and lungs. Remembers Misaki’s body collapsing and the rain washing away the poisoned blood in his lips and hands; he remembers its density and color, that is was as viscid as oil and as black as death. He doesn’t remember much else, except Misaki breathing what it looked like his last seconds of life.

And then, he _felt_ it, the _blue_ , and saw the Blue King unleashing his magnanimity upon their enemy.

He remembers when it was him visiting Misaki’s hospital room —before he woke up two and a half week later— and gazing at the dull immutability of his face, the disheveled strands of chestnut hair, the fiery eyes concealed by pale eyelids, the oxygen mask, his parted lips and the lethargic pace of his breathing.

“Misaki is strong,” he remembers he heard Anna say with enviable fortitude once, and Saruhiko stifled a sarcastic laugh, because _strong_ does not equal common sense. They were human, not deities.

Anna continued, “Izumo is downstairs,” and as if reading Saruhiko’s mind, as if not facing anyone else —to remind him it was him who was meant to take Misaki’s place— would bring him any relief, she added, “Just him.”

He then watched her place the pink lotus flower she was holding in her petite hands the whole time on the table next to Misaki’s bed, remarking as she did so, “It means _rebirth_.”

“Rebirth, huh,” Saruhiko tasted the word on his tongue, and thought out loud, “Is that even possible.”

“Misaki has faith. He believes,” she turned around, her red eyes as inscrutable as ever, “it’s a new beginning.”

_Beginnings, hah._

Beginnings are tortuous—whether it’s the moment humans are born, the moment two friends have to let new people into their lives, the moment someone fights for his life on a hospital bed—

“And this is the price?”

“Saruhiko is alive.”

“Tch. It’s like you’re saying I’m the reason he’s like this.”

“Yes,” Anna declared with no shame in her lack of hesitation, and it’s just so _funny_ ; never had he thought he would hear the actual _blame_ coming from that child’s lips, he should have known better— “But,” she went on, “Misaki is still fighting.”

Anna. The reason why Saruhiko left HOMRA wasn’t because of this—Anna, who seemed to speak in riddles, could have been the perfect excuse for having done so, had he had the chance to see her doing it years before, if he had only interacted more with her.

“Saruhiko is alive because Misaki wants to protect,” she stated, Saruhiko’s silence urging her to keep talking, “Misaki believes that as long as he can pay the price, he will protect, and he’s happy—”

_What is there to protect—_

“—that it wasn’t Saruhiko. That Saruhiko—”

“So he thinks I’m not strong enough for this?! But _he_ is?!” he cut her off sharply, his hands turning into burning fists until the nails digging into his palms reminded him of when Misaki pushed him and his hands scraped against the wet, rough asphalt.

After a much longer silence, Anna spoke, “No,” and waited for Saruhiko to calm down, “If the worst were to happen, Saruhiko can change the world.”

Saruhiko nearly choked on his breath.

He turned his head and dared to look Anna in the eyes, when she said, “Better Misaki than Saruhiko.”

...

_You don’t get to decide who lives and who—_

_Who—_

“Is he an idiot? I won’t forgive him. If he wakes up—”

“ _When_ Misaki wakes up,” Anna politely corrected him, “Saruhiko can tell him personally.”

After that, Saruhiko straightened his back and headed to the door when Anna’s voice stopped him, “Do I tell Misaki that Saruhiko came?”

He took a pause before replying, “Do as you want.”

True to Anna’s word, Izumo was downstairs, bidding Saruhiko good-bye with a smile when he walked past him while he replied with a nod.

Six months later, Saruhiko looks down at the sleeping figure, at Misaki’s closed eyes, hidden beneath strands of chestnut hair, and this time, he brushes a few bangs from his face.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The first thing Misaki notices when he rubs his eyes and speculates that the silhouette standing out against the beams of light shining through the blinds must belong to Saruhiko is that his neck fucking hurts. And that Saruhiko is out of bed.

And he’s getting dressed.

“Huh? Saru?” he mumbles, voice raspy from his somnolent state, before taking a quick look at his watch, reading almost four in the afternoon. “Shit—I slept all morning?”

“We both did,” Saruhiko’s back is still facing him as he buttons up the clean, white shirt of the uniform he had come with and that the hospital personnel had washed the evening he arrived.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m off.”

“What?”

“I’m discharged,” he clarifies, imagining the way Misaki’s mouth is probably opening in confusion. “Today.”

Misaki gasps, “Y-you wanna break out of the hospital!”

“I don’t, idiot!”

“Heh, r-right... so, where are you going?”

“Wherever I want,” which is not a lie.

“Huh? What does that mean?”

“They want me to take the day off.”

Misaki frowns, because he has been deliberately avoiding bringing up work and SCEPTER 4 and duty, but Saruhiko indirectly mentions it anyways.

“So... you’re gonna take the day off,” he means to _ask_ , but the words come out as an affirmation, and there’s a doubtful silence when Saruhiko heads to the closet, where the bag with his spare clothes is, and replies with a sigh.

“I don't have anywhere else to go.”

“Then... _where_ are you staying?” Misaki rephrases, hoping to get a less ambiguous answer.

Saruhiko considers it. For a moment—

_How stupid._

“I’m going back to headquarters.”

“Hah?!”

“What?”

“Well, they gave you the day off for a reason!”

“A _stupid_ reason,” he huffs, because Munakata does that sometimes, and he couldn’t have guessed Saruhiko wanted more time, if not in the hospital, _anywhere_ else. He just couldn’t. “I’m fine.”

“B-but,” Misaki stammers, looking for persuasive words to convince Saruhiko that—that going back is a terrible decision. “Wouldn’t it be better to... y’know, rest? From all that?”

“My things are there, Misaki,” Saruhiko points out, although there’s neither malice nor irritation in his tone, but a light sense of disorientation from Misaki’s consistent questioning. “You want me to wander around the streets all day for no reason at all?”

“W-well...”

Misaki feels the uncomfortable hesitation crawling to his throat as he brings a hand to the back of his neck and shifts his gaze to the floor—despite the striking indecision, however, his tongue is faster, and thoughtless, “You could come to my—”

Just as thoughtless and instinctive is Saruhiko’s answer, “No,” he cuts him off while his hands tighten around the bag with his clothes and the folded blue coat next to it, and he finds it _odd_ that he doesn’t quite revel in the way the refusal automatically left his mouth with such unstoppable inertia and spontaneity, that he has to add, “I don’t have any money,” which, he realizes, is a stupid and unintelligent excuse—so much as to make him want to slam his head between the doors of the empty closet.

Misaki’s excitement is slightly hurt, hence the silence that follows, but not more discouraged than before, and he has to raise a puzzled eyebrow and sputter a loud ‘ _huh?_ ’ because Saruhiko is so fucking difficult to read, but it’s also so fucking difficult for Misaki to ask him to just _follow_ _him_. Home.

“I don’t—” Saruhiko repeats as Anna’s words ring in his head and he imagines her telling him something as disgustingly tender as _it’s not a beginning if it’s never given a chance to start anew_.

But before concluding his response, Misaki is already on the other side of the room, pushing him aside and snatching his belongings with a swift motion, including the hideous coat he hates so much and that he would not hesitate to accuse of giving him rashes later.

“Come on, monkey, let’s get you some food. You’re so fucking starving that you can’t even think properly,” Misaki demands with a feral growl, just a few steps away from the door. “Then you can go back playing knights and swords.”

“Oi, that’s—”

“You’ll get them back,” Misaki cuts him off, raising the fist holding Saruhiko’s clothes and coat, “once you get your damn breakfast.”

“It’s almost... half past four.”

Misaki snarls as he heads out, “ _You’ll get them back once you get your damn breakfast_.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Saruhiko gets his damn breakfast, at roughly six p.m., and in any other context, historical era and circumstances, he would have thought he was damned, too, for accepting Misaki's _invitation_ —which felt more like a forceful obligation that left no room for a refusal—, for not putting up a fight when Misaki made him follow him all over the city to his apartment —luckily for him, with a bus trip in between—, or for turning his little adventure into some twisted Stockholm syndrome situation.

The rather suspicious-looking, large, shady corridor they have to walk through before reaching Misaki’s door is just what Saruhiko needs to support his theory that Misaki haven’t changed _a lot_ —that absurd fascination with danger and the adrenaline of what the underworld has to offer seem to match the cold, dark walls at their sides, and that’s the kind of place Misaki would live in, he thinks.

But for being someone who boasts about knowing the little details in Misaki’s like, and who doesn’t fancy retracting his words, it surprises him to admit he was wrong.

When Misaki opens the door and turns the lights on, there isn’t any pile of clothes —or whatever item he can think of— facing their feet and the floor is an unbelievably neat surface Saruhiko doesn’t find the will to step on. There are just a few pieces of furniture, which is no more than what Misaki alone really needs, while a few items lay scattered around the —Saruhiko assumes— only and biggest room in the apartment; it’s not a mess, but not a complete order, either.

The lighting and the sun filtering through a window make the room look bigger, even though it clearly isn’t; it _feels_ bigger, though, and warmer, unlike the walls along the outer corridor.

Misaki’s eyes widen when he turns around to lock the door and sees Saruhiko, immobile, still by the door frame.

“Uh... you can come in,” he says, and sensing the hesitation in Saruhiko’s body, Misaki doesn’t feel the need to rush him and waits for his _guest_ to get in on his own before closing the door behind his back and hanging his blue coat on the hook on the wall next to it.

“Alright,” Misaki mutters as he kicks his shoes off, and marks each subsequent word with a gesture of his index finger, signaling their respective location. “Shoes. Bathroom. Kitchen... not that you need to go there.”

Saruhiko arches a skeptical eyebrow.

“ _O—kay_... you probably want to, uh...” Misaki falters as he hands Saruhiko his belongings. “Take a shower,” he orders softly with a sheepish look settled on his face as his gaze lowers to the ground. “There’s hot water, so...”

“ _I’m fine_ ,” Saruhiko mumbles in an inaudible tone that makes Misaki raise his head.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replies instantly, and flicks his head at the door Misaki had identified as the bathroom minutes before. “There?”

“Ah, yeah. There’s a towel in the cabinet.”

“I know.”

“Hah?”

Saruhiko leaves Misaki behind, preventing himself from unleashing more hints that gave away how he remembered the mundane details of when they lived together. Once he steps into the bathroom, and upon closing the door and opening the cabinet next to the sink, his eyes are automatically drawn to the lowest shelf in an instinctive reflex, finding a spare towel right where Misaki used to keep them—the only place that allowed someone with his particular height to keep things handy, actually.

That hadn’t changed.

Upon inspecting his bag and finding that Munakata had been considerate enough — _or something_ — to pack a new toothbrush, Saruhiko turns the shower on, exhaling deeply when the hot water hits his stiff shoulders.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki stands in the kitchen and sighs in relief, glad that he had gone to the grocery store two days before and had enough provisions to cook something for him and a famished Saruhiko.

He thinks about what could have happened the moment he first visited Saruhiko in the hospital that ended up with him dragging his _ex_ partner to his place three days later and facing zero resistance, and for someone who’s used to culminating with a bruise or two, the situation felt too foreign.

Misaki isn’t left with a lot of time to think about anything, however; when he hears the oil beginning to sizzle in the pan, he also feels his PDA buzz in his pocket, and instantaneously picks up, ignoring the ‘ _Unknown Caller_ ’legend flashing on the screen.

“Good day, Yata-kun.”

_That voice._

“What do you want,” Misaki mumbles with gritted teeth, almost in a whisper, forcing his voice to stay low and calm as he turns the fire off; because he has the feeling it’s conversation that’s going to last a good while, and he’s not going to let an insignificant distraction ruin his meal or making him end up with something that smells like burnt and inedible.

“Is Fushimi-kun with you?”

“Hah? And what does that matter to you?”

“I’ll take that as a _yes_ ,” the older man pauses, “Fushimi-kun is one of SCEPTER 4’s employees. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that.”

Misaki snarls — _how could he_ , if about three years of his life revolved around digesting the fact that Saruhiko wasn’t coming back— and retorts with yet another question. “How did you get this number?”

“Oh? I hope you do not think there really is any impediment in tracking _your_ number. This is a child's play. I’m sure you know better, of all people.”

_Freaking stalker._ “Shut up. Don’t make fun of me.”

“Well, that is _not_ the reason why I’m calling, though.”

“And what do you want?”

“I want to make sure,” Munakata takes a deliberate pause and the dearth of sympathy in his following words makes them sound like an order. “You will not hurt Fushimi-kun.”

“What—are you crazy?!”

“If I really ought to answer to that, no. It is simply my duty to ensure the well-being of my subordinates.”

_Well, it’s kinda late for that._

There are many things Misaki senses are wrong in that statement, commencing with the fact that Munakata’s tone sounds as heartless as he always imagined it to be, and that Misaki isn’t following some stupid protocol he’d rather shove down the man’s throat; he didn’t make it his _duty_ to take Saru home, and Saru is _not_ just some subordinate. _Hah_ , they were so lucky to take Saru away from him, who they think of as a mere pawn; they don’t know what they’re missing, what they have in front of them until someone snatches him away from them for a second, and then they expect to have him—

It sounds all too damn familiar it makes Misaki sick.

There are many things Misaki wants to say to burn away the bitterness in his chest.

“Tch. I don’t want to hear that from you. It’s _your_ side’s fault he ended up in the hospital in the first place.”

“Is that so? I see your enviable persistence is as famous as they say, Yatagarasu, as so is your stubbornness.”

“Hey—”

“However,” Munakata cuts him off, “I trust you. It wouldn’t hurt Fushimi-kun to stay in your hands for a bit before coming back, even if it is just for a day.”

“Tch. Right.”

“Make the most of it.”

“Yeah, bye... wait—”

“If this is your way of returning the favor, then it’s fine. See you, then.”

“What do you—hey!” Misaki exclaims, desperate to get answers, but the dead line on the other side of the phone doesn’t give him time to respond to the Blue King’s enigmatic charades. “What a creep.”

He didn’t expect any of this; he didn’t expect finding the courage to bring Saruhiko to his place, lending him his shower, much less having to tell him, later, they were supposed to sleep in the same room, if Saruhiko decided to _stay_. It disconcerted him a little that he didn’t get any protest when he convinced him of following him, unless Saruhiko had wanted to follow him all along, honoring Munakata’s previous words—

_If this is your way of returning the favor, then it’s fine._

—which insinuates that Misaki owes _something_ to _someone_ , and he doesn’t even know what that is, neither does he like the idea.

_What... favor?_

\- - - - - - - - - -

Saruhiko is left waiting in the main room, sat on the floor and fiddling with his PDA, surrounded by the sounds of utensils bouncing off the counter of the kitchen while a few cool drops trickle down from his hair.

When Misaki is back, he gets his damn breakfast, at roughly six p.m., and in any other context, historical era and circumstances, he would have thought he was damned, too, but he can’t really feel damned when Misaki’s so-called breakfast, consisting of beef and an omelet —because, in Misaki’s words, Saruhiko needed the proteins—, looks so simple, but tastes far better than any hospital food or the faint memory of the improvised dishes made by a much younger Misaki from about a decade ago fooling his mind but never touching his tongue nor reaching his stomach.

Misaki is the first to break the silence when he glances up at him, “How is it?”

Saruhiko pauses, only to glimpse at Misaki once, then at the meal before them. “Only you would call a six p.m. meal a _breakfast_.”

“Well, it’s better than having none at all.”

After another instant of silence, Saruhiko responds, “It’s good.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

“Thanks,” Saruhiko mutters once Misaki is finished carrying all the dishes to the kitchen, “for the meal.”

It earns him a curious gaze from the redhead as he comes back from the kitchen and sits down opposite him once again, but when Misaki senses Saruhiko’s muscles tensing, his hands ready to be used as leverage to stand up, he interrupts Saruhiko right before he’s able to lift himself off the floor. “Where are you going?”

“ _Misaki_.”

“Stay,” Misaki persists, “The place is... nice. There aren’t noises or leaks. I said I could take care of you for today, so let me do that,” he continues, Saruhiko’s silence giving him all the room he needs to keep talking. “I don’t’ care what you do—if you just... want to sleep or do nothing at all, that’s fine.”

“Fine.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

“S-so, speaking of which—are you tired?”

Saruhiko doesn’t answer; he glances up at the sudden change in Misaki’s expression instead.

“There!” Misaki exclaims, excitedly pointing with his index finger at the western futon on the other side of the room, next the window.

Saruhiko follows the direction, “Mm?”

“It’s a western futon!”

“I know what it is.”

“You see—it’s awesome,” Misaki continues, ignoring Saruhiko’s remark as he stands up and walks up to the futon. “You push it back and it _opens_ and—”

Saruhiko senses where the conversation is going, and cuts him off, “Where do you sleep?”

“Uh... I use it for sleeping.”

“Where do you want _me_ to sleep, then?” he rephrased.

“W-well...”

Saruhiko sighs, utters Misaki’s name as he stands up, “Misaki—”

“W-wait, listen, it’s big enough when it’s open, I promise,” Misaki stammers, raising his hands in a defensive gesture before walking up to the futon and placing a palm firmly around the wood frame at the back. “Look, I’m just gonna—I’ve never really used it like this, but Kusanagi-san helped me carry it here and he told me—where was it... ah,” he explains, the strain perceptible in his voice as he pushes the back of the futon down, the folded mattress flattening and turning the previous couch into some sort of a small double-bed. “There! Pretty cool, huh?”

In spite of not finding anything _cool_ about a bed, Saruhiko takes one of its cushions and walks up to the mattress to lie down on his side without uttering a word, turning his back to a solaced Misaki.

“A-alright... you rest, okay? I'll catch up... later,” Misaki says, despite Saruhiko already revealing his decision, and retreats to the kitchen.

Saruhiko falls asleep with the sound of the water running down the sink.

After finishing washing the dishes and allowing himself a late-night treat, Misaki stands in the middle of the dark room with a pillow under his arm, staring at his ex partner sleeping on one side of his bed. He hesitates, but he eventually settles next to him.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki can’t sleep. He isn’t sure he wants to, either.

He has a lot to think about, despite the fact that he’s not used to allowing a lot of things into his mind, to dealing with the feeling of having something as intangible as thoughts and emotions blitzing his mind, all at the same time. He’s also not used to having little pieces from the past coming back to him. Or having Saruhiko lying next to him.

He doesn’t want to sleep anything away, lose the bits of memories he had gained that week and that day.

Misaki really has _a lot_ to think about, and he wonders if Saruhiko does, too.

As he shifts on the mattress, he jolts slightly when he turns around, and what little he can make out from the moonlight shining through the window and hitting their bodies weakly, is enough for him to notice Saruhiko is just as awake as he is, and staring at him.

“Uh... can’t sleep?”

“How did you find out?”

They may have all the time in the world —for how long, though— but Saruhiko wastes no second to ask, his firm tone rendering Misaki completely unprepared to give him an immediate answer.

Misaki had been abstaining from asking about the reasons that led Saruhiko to be hospitalized when he visited him, and about anything that had to do with it when he was let out, but there was a flicker of an unspoken _need_ in Saruhiko’s eyes that seemed to be begging for some understanding, and told Misaki that he knew, and better tell him, what the other wanted to know.

“We were at the bar. It was all over the news,” Misaki manages to hold his gaze despite the influx of images playing before his eyes; a blurred collection of pictures that lingers between Saruhiko’s face and his own, in which he sees the debris, the smoke and the glimpses of blue uniforms— “I didn’t know until later, I...”

They stay quiet, immobile, unfamiliar with the lack of the habitual clash of noise and disruption that so naturally swathe around them every time they meet—even though Misaki feels his heart pounding faster, the foreign silence soothes him. And while he struggles to annex some cohesion to his words, and to kill the thought that with every syllable released from his lips a new bruise on each of Saruhiko’s knuckles would be born, Saruhiko doesn’t rush him, silently paying heed to every sound, every sentence Misaki says and doesn’t say, despite the bitter taste in his mouth—six months ago, Misaki’s name wasn’t even close to being mentioned in the news and he didn’t recall hearing about those who were with him either, not when the heroic great deeds of the police force was all the media was after, and—that was okay, _fine_ , back then, for Saruhiko would keep all the sorrow to himself, if he had to.

The occasional lights coming from the vehicles going and disappearing into the night filter through the window, fading within seconds as Misaki finds the energy and the words to go on.

“It took a while. The phones lines were down after that. It was crazy. And then Kusanagi-san called _someone_ and...” Misaki explains, slowly, and struggles with the _confusion_ or the _relief_ of remembering the link between the second-in-command he looks up to and someone else from their enemy side—because _that_ , as illogical as it sounded all these years, that kind of connection might be just what Misaki wants, needs, right now. “And then he told me. That was two hours after they took you in, I think.”

Saruhiko’s eyes are still on him, recreating the scenes in his head but not paying any less attention to Misaki’s face, or the way his hazel eyes narrow and flicker down, or the way his lips part and close before he says, “They told me you were conscious, but... I had to see...”

And after that, Saruhiko lets his eyes fall shut, since to close his eyes is to test his safety, to expose himself before Misaki’s gaze and feel what it tastes like, before turning around to lie on his other side, trusting his back to him, because it has been enough for a day and he’s still feeling the real fatigue weighing down on him—or perhaps it’s the sudden traffic of memories overwhelming both his mind and body.

Misaki doesn’t mind; he’s glad to be able to see Saruhiko’s back one more time, with no threats in between, nor any hospital gowns, and right next to him, no less, especially after tasting what loss and defeat were like—in the shape of a friend holding his last breath on a terrace while embraced by both Misaki’s arms and death itself; or when the tears won’t stop soaking his cheeks, cold and numb from the falling snow in a somber December; or when he is told, while watching the news, that _Saru was there_.

Misaki is glad that there isn’t any loss to mourn this time, and he smiles contentedly, until a silly idea comes to his mind.

“Hey, let’s do something,” he says with an explicit enthusiasm, bracing a hand on the mattress to support his body.

“Mm?”

“I wanna check if you hit your head.”

Saruhiko doesn’t reply right away, “So?”

“So... what’s your name?”

He is then obliged to open his eyes and turn on his back, staring up at Misaki from below with a skeptical look, “What?”

“Introduce yourself.”

“Did _you_ hit your head?”

“Aw, come on!” Misaki whines, albeit accepting the fact that Saruhiko would not make the first step. “So, um... Yata. Your turn.”

Saruhiko raises an eyebrow, “Just _Yata_?”

“Come on!”

And damn if the little sparks of emotion in Misaki’s eyes aren’t what Saruhiko needs to humor him, “Fushimi.”

“Aaand?” Misaki drawls.

“Saruhiko.”

“Good. Nice t’meet you.”

“ _Misaki_ , huh?” Saruhiko utters his name in a way he hadn’t in a long time. “Charming.”

“Shut up!” Misaki grumbles loudly, ignoring the flagrant darkness supposed to remind him it was the middle of the night. “And you’re cheating. I didn’t tell you _that_.”

“For old times’ sake, Mi—sa—ki~”

“That’s against the point!”

Saruhiko lets out a soft hum and turns his back at Misaki once again, allowing a rejuvenated satisfaction and a strange sense of fulfillment to curve his lips as he closes his eyes. Misaki sinks down onto the bed again, and after just a few seconds, Saruhiko feels Misaki's forehead pressing against his back.

“Hey... Saru?” Misaki whispers.

“What?”

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Forty-five minutes later, Saruhiko is still awake when he hears Misaki murmur in his sleep, voice drowsy and lethargic, “I'm not... returning the favor.”

Saruhiko remembers six months ago; he remembers when it was him visiting Misaki’s hospital room, gazing at his parted lips and the lethargic pace of his breathing.

_I know... I don’t want you to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I didn't dive _too much_ into their—uh, inner thoughts and that, especially Saru's (who seems to react a bit _passively_ here—well, he spent some time in the hospital, after all (?)), but this was supposed to be a quick/short first chapter, so I took some licenses u vu.
> 
> That aside, thank you for reading! ♥


	2. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misaki struggles with their first monthsary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sometime between the first chapter and this one, _voilà_ , they began dating, a month happened, this happened, yeah.

**Something-versaries are _complicated_.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki stands before the window display of a store in the shopping district, finding nothing he likes.

What was he thinking.

He wasn’t definitely considering the little details. He never does, because he’s wild and untamed, and little details sometimes get burnt within his hand turned into a fist engulfed in flames, whether he’s aware of it or not. But now, _now_ he has someone else’s hand to fit in his, and those persistent details resurface, intact and determined.

He didn’t even think of all the future commemoration dates that would come later, probably —like a special date that was too close to come to ignore—, when he agreed that, yes, he was head over heels for Saruhiko.

 _Oh, right_. He was too busy realizing he had fallen head over heels for him.

But he tries, or at least he _wants_ to, because that’s what normal couples do, right? Except that he doesn’t know what exactly being normal is, and even if there’s a standard regulation to follow out there, he’s pretty sure he’s far from being one of its most loyal adepts. What are _rules_ for the Yatagarasu?

It’s complicated.

Because Misaki still wants to get Saruhiko something for the next Sunday, a reminder of their first month together. Their first month together without wanting to inflict pain to each other. The first month in which they found themselves staring into each other’s eyes to find sparks of relief, condolence, and support.

And it’s so fucking complicated.

Because flowers are sappy. What the hell does one do with flowers, anyway. Besides, flowers scream _Misaki_ , and _blossom_ , and _bloom_ , and...

_Yeah. No._

Chocolates are sappy. Plus, Saruhiko doesn’t like them.

Jewelry? Too allergenic. And he can’t afford any piece of gold or silver.

Does Saruhiko even like jewels in the first place.

Maybe _Saruhiko_ is too complicated.

Or maybe Misaki just doesn’t know his boyfriend _enough_ to guess what he would like, but that’s a thought that makes him cringe, so he dismisses it while he decides that, yes, something-versaries —or Saru, maybe both— are complicated.

Misaki’s dilemma still doesn’t grow any less with his inference; the more he gazes at the merchandise before his eyes, the less he finds something that might convince him. He wants something that screams romantic without sounding too desperate; something _cool as hell_ , too, without looking too cold or childish, but he can’t really bring himself to tell the shopkeeper that, _uh, it’s for a guy and he needs to see the thing and feel how much I’m glad to have him with me—_

_To have him—_

_Also I think he hates a lot of things._

Everything screams _corny_ , and he needs to make Saruhiko swoon with coziness and ridiculous butterflies, not laugh in his face.

The lady at the cash register glances at the entrance and smiles fondly at him, and Misaki blurts out in stutters that he would be back later and rushes away shortly after. But he wouldn’t, because he thinks, and thinks, and ponders for about ten more minutes before finally making up his mind, and when he gets home, he calls Saru and invites him over for dinner on Saturday and tells him to go tell that King of his to give him the day off on Sunday because he’s also staying the night, to which Saruhiko assents, because he can, and because Misaki hangs up before he has time to protest—not that he had any objection in the first place.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Saruhiko is allowed to ask for the day off on Sundays, and unless there’s a major emergency, the Blue Clan can do fine without him.

So when he does, the Blue King raises his gaze and gives him a sympathetic look, because Saruhiko has _changed_ , since exactly one month ago, and now, one month later, he’s asking for the _whole_ day off and insists, leaving no room for doubt, that his request includes the previous night—that is, that he would not sleep in SCEPTER 4’s dorms.

Munakata smiles at him, as if he _knew_ , as if there wasn’t a single detail that can escape his knowledge. Saruhiko ignores him like usual, because he always ignore the way the lips of his Captain curve up in a manner that makes him want to punch him for being so understanding and empathetic, even though he _is_ grateful.

\- - - - - - - - - -

As sudden as Misaki's petition was, Saruhiko still finds himself agreeing and standing in front of the door of the his small apartment complex at nine p.m. with a bag with a change of clothes over his shoulder. It’s not the first time he visits him, though, and nothing has changed since the last time he was there—that is, eight days ago. The handrails at the stairs leading to Misaki’s floor are still rusty and the corridors smell dusty, as always, despite being completely cleared, and obscure, he has to add.

However, when he knocks on Misaki’s door with the knuckle of his index finger —the sound being enough for him to make out an excited ‘ _Ah, comin’!_ ’ from the other side— and it opens within few seconds, the inside looks _nothing_ like the shady outward walls; it owes its sudden brightness to Misaki’s vibrant presence and a rather enchanting scent that filters through his nose and reminds him of _kotatsu_ , computers and home.

He sometimes wonders what kind of memories Misaki has made between those walls without him.

“Just in time! Sit!” Misaki chirps, flashing him a smile before disappearing into the kitchen with a pair of oven mitts on his hands. “You hungry?”

Saruhiko closes the door for him, lets his bag hang on a hook right next to it, and responds, “A little.”

“Okay! It’ll be ready in a bit!”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki is glad he had enough money to get all the right ingredients to prepare an elaborate-looking dinner for the both of them. He’s also glad that the final result wasn’t supposed to look that _good_ , except it does—because, _ha_ , he’s Yata _-fucking-_ garasu, and he never doubts his skills, that’s why it does.

He might have also put a lot of effort... and love.

And he can’t help but blush a little while he stands in the kitchen, staring at the dish he has just finished putting the finishing touches to and even going as far as to place two leaves of parsley on each hamburger steak, because it’s embarrassing.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“So? How is it?”

“Really good,” Saruhiko mutters as he chews a bite of meat.

They chat for a while, about food, the weather, work and vacations. Saruhiko doesn’t ask about the reasons behind Misaki's sudden invitation, neither of them brings the subject up, even though Saruhiko had already inferred something.

There’s also an omurice on his plate, next to his steak, and both taste delicious.

They fall asleep in each other’s arms on Misaki’s futon, which —even when turned into a bed— barely fits more than two people, and which is just what they need. Saruhiko would be still good with even less space, though, if that meant he got to pull Misaki into his arms tighter.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The next morning, Saruhiko feels Misaki shift and escape his grip, and cracks one eye open at the unfamiliar sight of the redhead getting out of bed before he does, as he murmurs his name dreamily.

“Ah, I’m makin’ breakfast,” Misaki says in a whisper and scurries into the kitchen.

\- - - - - - - - - -

When Saruhiko is done brushing his teeth, the main room smells lovely.

Misaki fidgets next to the table where a rich breakfast with a good variety of bread, eggs, rice, even cheese and some fruits is displayed.

“W-well, you see, today’s—”

“It’s been a month,” Saruhiko steals his words and Misaki’s mouth is left slightly agape, a weird sense of relief washing over him upon realizing that he wasn’t the only one _aware_. He didn’t think Saruhiko would notice, too.

The little details.

“Y-you remembered?!”

Saruhiko sighs, “You sound surprised.”

“N-no, I... I’m glad.”

Saruhiko clicks his tongue and Misaki has to bite his own to swallow the laugh bubbling in his throat, before walking over to where the man stands and mustering his courage to put his hands on the sides of Saruhiko’s face to pull him down to level their eyes and catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“D-don’t laugh,” Misaki immediately explains when he pulls back, “That’s, uh... your present.”

A few seconds pass by before Saruhiko asks, as if reaching conclusions, “Last night’s dinner...?”

“T-that too.”

Saruhiko raises an eyebrow and notices a faint blush creeping to Misaki's ears, and forces himself to stifle a laugh at his sudden shyness.

_Seriously, Misaki? After yesterday’s dinner and today’s breakfast?_

And letting out a soft hum, he locks a hand behind Misaki’s neck and pulls him into a more fervent, almost bruising kiss. The pulse below the shorter’s ear pounds beneath his thumb as their lips melt into one and he feels Misaki shudder, Misaki’s tongue caressing his, Misaki’s fragile gentleness that he hides under a mask of brutality and dust, as he angles his head and kisses him deeper.

He pulls back, pauses a moment to gaze into Misaki’s eyes and take in the flush right beneath them as he bumps their foreheads together, and brushes his thumb over the corner of Misaki's lips when they pull apart, only to press it against the tip of his own lips and tongue in a provocative fashion, savoring it, _that bastard_ , and claiming, “ _That’s_ my present.”

There are lots of things Saruhiko abhors, but he doesn’t mind the raging _red_ when it falls onto Misaki’s cheeks in a way he finds absolutely appealing.

“S-so... that’s it?”

“Mm?” Saruhiko grins delighted as he hovers over him, “Want more?”

“I-I mean if you want to do something!”

“Heh. Sure,” he points at their awaiting breakfast, “I wanna try that.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Much to Misaki’s surprise, Saruhiko got him something.

“Well,” he says as Misaki takes into his hands a small keychain of a rounded, black crow that chirped shrilly and noisily when its body was squeezed. “It’s so noisy. It reminded me of you.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

When Misaki finally convinces Saruhiko of going out, take some fresh air, he finds himself tugging at the swordsman’s arms like _crazy_ in the middle of the street, anxiously wanting to push him into the first store he likes so that he can get him anything he wants—as long as he’s able to afford it.

Saruhiko’s left with no choice but to threaten him to kiss him in public. _It doesn’t matter_ , he says, but if Misaki is so eager, he can just keep cooking for him like he did; yesterday, that morning, and forever after.

Or maybe get him a copy of his keys.


	3. Making History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After moving into their new apartment, Misaki wants to print out some photographs. Saruhiko decides to take the matter into his own hands... but things don't go exactly as he expected.

**_History_ ** **is what Saruhiko will turn into if rumors about his ‘homey adventures’ start running throughout SCEPTER 4’s corridors.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

It all started with a little request.

“Come on, Saru, just _one_ ,” Misaki practically begs in the middle of their breakfast.

“I thought you had enough.”

Photographs. Pictures. Printed mirrors charged with faces, gestures and emotions. Saruhiko wasn’t really one to plaster his memories into layers of glossy paper —there was little worth remembering about his early years, back then— until he met Misaki. Even after that, he still wasn’t one to _die_ to take them, leaving that to the redhead instead.

“Yeah, but those are from middle school, and I need one from _now_ , I mean... _you_... _this_ you right now. We have like... none,” Misaki explains as he points at the laptop on the table, “and the rest are in there.”

“So?”

“ _So_ ,” he breathes out, already tasting Saruhiko’s lack of initiative on his tongue, “I want one of your face. Come on, don’t you blues keep ID cards and things like that, for... I don’t know... identification purposes?”

“That’s why ID cards are for... and it’s classified.”

“Huh?!”

“But no, we don’t.”

“You guys suck,” Misaki scowls.

“Why do you need it so badly anyway?”

“I... just want one. Mom used to keep a picture of me in her wallet, of Minoru and Megumi, too. It’s like having your family around, something like that. So... my wallet...”

“You _have_ a wallet?”

“Well, yeah.”

“ _You_?”

“ _Ha, ha_... very funny.”

“Why don’t you just print one we already took and crop it?”

“Ah,” Misaki actually likes the suggestion, because it seems to be the only way to get what he wants at the moment. “I could do that.”

“Well, do that.”

“Yeah,” Misaki quickly rises to his feet and comes back with the laptop in his hands, pulling it onto his lap.

“What about all of the _purikuras_ we took?” Saruhiko asks, this time, however, with a genuine tone of curiosity.

“Yeah, uh... I don’t wanna crop those. I like them the way they are.”

And he can't help but hum in amusement, “You're such a child.”

“Shut up. C’mere and help me pick.”

Saruhiko humors him, if only to get some amusement before heading to work, and settles down next to Misaki’s frame, observing the several rows of image files on the screen and realizing there is not a single one of him alone; Misaki is in all of them, though. And in those in which Misaki managed to _surprise_ him, somehow, Saruhiko seemed to unconsciously sense the camera ready to shoot and his hair would usually get in the way.

“Dammit. It’s like cameras don’t like you, huh.”

“It’s not my fault, you took most of them.”

“I know, I know,” he waves his hand.

They quickly browse through the many files and Misaki picks the ones he’s interested in —in which he inevitable appears, too— and copies them into a flash drive, smiling triumphantly when he’s done.

“There!”

Next to him, Saruhiko inquires, “Aren’t they going to ask questions?”

“Huh? Who?” Misaki’s head turns slightly to glance at him, not quite understanding who he was referring to.

“When you print them out. They’ll see them.”

“Y-yeah... so what.”

“So you don’t mind being asked _since how long_ , or who cooks or does the laundry.”

“U-uh... I-I don’t! I-It’s okay!”

“They’re going to ask.”

“W-we’re not doing anything... _weird_ in any of these pictures, Saru.”

“Mm, but you sure are smiling a lot.”

“Well, y-yeah. Someone’s got to smile for you,” Misaki justifies, and falls silent shortly after, pondering Saruhiko’s words before speaking again. “S-so you say that—“

“Leave it to me,” Saruhiko utters as Misaki’s fingers fidgets around the end of the flash drive; he then encloses Misaki's hand with his own, pulling together the tiny device and then securing it between his own fingers.

“E-eh? Are you sure?“

“Don’t worry. There’s a color printer in one of the offices that nobody uses.”

“A-alright! Thanks, Saru!” Misaki chirps, enthusiastically so that Saruhiko easily senses the relief in his words.

“I’ll be going now then.”

Misaki kisses his cheek and stays with the laptop. Saruhiko watches him create new subfolders to filter all of the pictures by sections, but he swallows any commentary on it.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Saruhiko leaves earlier, so he manages to arrive at SCEPTER 4’s headquarters before many of the clansmen he’s familiarized with, while he thinks over his next steps in his head. _It isn’t that hard_ , he thinks; he only has to sneak into one of the rooms of the usually deserted wing and use one of the machines to print the pictures out. Child's play.

Once he finds it, he walks in and turns one of the printers on and plugs the flash drive in to commence the printing process. And everything is just _perfect_ , because the ink cartridges are full and no one ever uses that room.

No one has to know he was there.

The job is done within a few seconds, and Saruhiko hides the printed pages between a few other blank pages and fake ‘reports’.

No one would even see him.

Except—

“Fushimi-kun.”

Except, if there was anyone who happened to have enough time to spare and explore his own facilities—as stupid as the idea sounded.

Saruhiko’s body jolts slightly, recognizing _the_ voice, and turns slowly, looking back at the entrance where none other than the Blue King is standing, hands firmly held behind his back. He doesn’t know how long he has been there, observing him, perhaps, but Saruhiko’s serenity and composure is praiseworthy, despite the fact that he finds no words to exchange with his Captain. _How could he._

“It seems I have startled you,” says Munakata, “My apologies.”

“N-not at all,” Saruhiko manages, and wants to believe —he has no choice— he has successfully masked his actual surprise.

“I see. It’s a surprise, though. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Saruhiko stays silent, and then responds, “If I have to pay for this, I will.”

“Oh, don’t. It is certainly a waste if there is no one to use this room for what it was made for, so feel free to employ any instrument you find pertinent anytime you need to,” Munakata acknowledges, as serene as ever, as he places a hand over the top of the printer, feeling the warmth against his digits.

“I won’t need it anymore, but thank you.”

The Blue King replies with a harmonious nod and the knowing smile tugging his lips makes Saruhiko feel ridiculously uneasy; he wants to get the hell out of the room. Munakata doesn’t ask anythingabout Saruhiko’s sneaky behavior, but Saruhiko knows Munakata knows, and Munakata knows Saruhiko knows—hell, he’s pretty sure Munakata didn’t say anything about Saruhiko being earlier than usual because he’s had just enough being caught in the act of _something_.

“I’m finished,” Saruhiko says, turning the printer off and securing the pile of supposed reports tightly between his arm and waist. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” Munakata steps aside, letting the third-in-command leave, “Good luck,” he says. Saruhiko doesn’t reply.

It was a good plan, despite having run into his Captain and his immutable gaze. But no one else has to know.

What he does not know, however, is that Munakata dares to inspect the machine _out of pure curiosity_ , and manages to access to a copy of the recent printed files, thanks to the printer’s emergency log.

And he finds them _interesting_.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“I’m back,” Saruhiko announces at night as he locks the door.

“Ah, Saru? How’d it go?” Misaki’s voice reverberates softly through the apartment, “I’m here!” he exclaims while he operates the small washing machine from the farthest room of the apartment. However, Saruhiko’s eyes are fixed on a package that had been apparently delivered to them.

“What’s this?”

“Ah, that black box? Some blue guy came with it. Has your name on it,” explains Misaki.

 _That’s weird._ But Saruhiko pulls out one of his knives to cut the tape on the top, only to open the package and find another container inside, more flat and delicate.

 _Yeah, it_ is _weird._

Saruhiko opens it, and is utterly _horrified_.

He can’t digest the fact that there is a jigsaw puzzle of his face. And Misaki’s face too—because the whole puzzle is made up of every single photograph he had picked.

Misaki wrapping an arm around Saruhiko’s neck while doing the v-sign with his other hand.

Misaki’s smile against Saruhiko’s scowl.

Misaki and Saruhiko holding ice-cream cones.

Their first dinner at their new apartment.

Saruhiko wants to stab something—this wasn’t what he had in mind when Misaki once told him how he wanted to ‘preserve their history’ with pictures.

The note attached to it is just as disturbing as well.

 
    
    
        
    Fushimi-kun,
      
    I think you will find this puzzle most entertaining,  
    
    feel free to share it with your loved ones.
        
    
    
    
    Also, we will start serving fruit flavored ice-cream in the cafeteria,  
    
    since summer is coming soon, and you seem to enjoy them, do you not?
       
    
    
    
    Please, let us know your opinion on them,
    
    
    宗像礼司  
      
      
      
      
    

“—?!”

Misaki hears Saruhiko _scream_ and curse in rage, and dares to peek through the crack in the door of the small laundry room, warily and moderately concerned, to make sure Saruhiko is okay.

He decides to nag him about the photographs later.

He’s also going to wait a few days before asking him what those ashes in the trash can were all about.


	4. Rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon after moving into their new apartment, Misaki finds he wants to walk Saruhiko home (takes place somewhere between [Ch.2 (Complicated)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2640290/chapters/5899511) and [Ch.3 (Making History)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2640290/chapters/5929661), so the awkwardness of it all is fresh in this one).

**Misaki assumes there is a new sense of _rivalry_ , between him and those blues, that only he is aware of, because it’s not for the reasons they think.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

Sparks of fiery red dance around the skateboard’s wheels when it skids against the asphalt, and Misaki stops to glance at the large front gate from a safe distance. Several meters separate him from the few clansmen chatting behind the golden fence that surrounds the Blue Clan’s Headquarters.

He doesn’t like them, and it has nothing to do with his devotion and affiliation to their opposing clan—well, just a little.

Misaki feels an implicit competition between him and those men with their high collars and pompous coats and fancy words that have practically lived with Saruhiko all these years. In Misaki’s place. In _his_ place. It’s infuriating.

He skates away before anyone recognizes him and admonishes him for some stupid reason—breathing the same air as them, glaring at them too much. Whatever.

\- - - - - - - - - -

It’s already nightfall when Saruhiko crosses the main gate and walks about twenty meters into the main street under the starry night.

“Hey!”

A voice that sounds all too familiar to ignore effectively catches his attention, and when he turns to look to his side, he sees Misaki rising to his feet, his headphones around his neck, a bottle of soda in one hand while the other holds one edge of the skateboard he had just kicked up. He then walks through the few meters between them to where Saruhiko is standing, still and slightly baffled. _Hell_ —Misaki almost misses him, if not for the fact that there was a convenient pause between the songs playing through his headphones, enough for him to hear the click of Saruhiko’s boots echoing in the silent night.

Only when Saruhiko’s stare feels too solid, asking what he didn’t really need to voice, Misaki realizes he doesn’t know _what_ to say.

“Uh, I... was around here, so...” he begins, and notices the headphones are still on, the electric buzz of guitars and drums echoing amidst their bodies dying when he turns them off. “S-so... I got some soda! Want some?”

“What are you doing here?” Saruhiko finally asks, straightforward, not annoyed, not demanding; simply a _little_ bit confused.

“Told ya I was just passing by and—”

“...”

“Okay—I was waiting for you.”

“You what,” Saruhiko deadpans and a bead of sweat runs down Misaki’s neck because something like this shouldn’t be this difficult, _dammit_.

“I-I was waiting for you, okay? I thought you...” he pauses and brings a hand to his nape. Within a blink of his eyes, Saruhiko starts walking again. “Ah—w-wait!”

“You don’t have to,” Saruhiko says as Misaki follows his steps, trying to match his rhythm.

“B-but—”

“You don’t have to force yourself to do something you don’t feel—”

“I’m not!” Misaki stops and cuts him off with a fervent persistence, hoping his words sound as sincere as he is. “I want to! I mean... this is what c-couples do, right? I... I want to...” Saruhiko remains silent, and turns to look at him. “A-also, it’s dangerous to wander alone at this hour, so...”

“Dange—” the swordsman stammers, skeptical, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“I _know_ who I’m talking to,” Misaki retorts, “Who knows how many bastards _you_ pissed off. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“Hmph,” Saruhiko stifles a laugh, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A-and if you tried to take ‘em to prison they might be still out there waiting for a chance to make the next move. Their comrades could be planning something!”

“Hm, if—”

 _If their so friendly comrades were a bunch of hooligans who’d pick up fights with anyone for petty reasons, for example, and did I mention they’re based at a bar,_ Saruhiko thinks, analyzes, almost blurts out, because some sentiments don’t change _that_ easily; but he decides against it, because some others do, and the feeling of meeting Misaki one more time is one he wants to keep. And take care of.

“—if you say so.”

“Yeah, _so_ I’m walking with you whether you like it or not,” says Misaki with a triumphant smirk, and there isn’t a single thing about Misaki’s declaration that Saruhiko doesn’t like, but being the childish scoundrel Misaki knows he is—

“You know, Misaki,” he pauses and tilts his head back slightly, making the wide grin stretching his lips look more menacing and slightly wicked. “Have you heard the stories... about spirits roaming free at these hours? Right... _here_?”

“H-huh.”

“Have you?”

“Y-you’re kidding, right.”

Saruhiko sighs, “You haven’t...”

“W-why do you... have to work ‘til this late anyways.”

“ _Ah_ —don’t tell me you... you’d rather not come all the way here? Would you want me to hire someone, to escort us home, Mi—sa—ki~?” he taunts one last time.

But Misaki loses it, because he needs _no one_ —he himself alone _is_ and _should be_ enough.

Whatever supernatural menace roams free is all too forgotten; ghosts or not, Misaki is walking him _home_. Instinctively reaching out for Saruhiko’s wrist, Misaki’s fingers tightens around his purple wristband, as if the more pressure, the more he’d make up for the lost time, for the times he let others spend _his_ time in his stead, for the times he wasn’t there.

“Don’t,” he mutters, eyes fixed on their hands, because _I can take care of you. I wanna take care of us. Give us that chance, at least._

Saruhiko wonders since when Misaki started making such a worried face, and flicks his forehead with his other hand, breathing out, “Idiot. Let go.”

Misaki lets go with a slight scowl on his face as his gaze drifts to the ground, and he’s about to shove his hand into his pocket when Saruhiko catches his index and middle fingers with his own, and tugs them.

“Let’s hurry. I’m hungry,” he says, eyes to the front and practically dragging Misaki along with his grip. “If you can’t keep up with me, I’ll leave you behind,” he warns him, but his words lack menace, and Misaki’s usual grin is there once again, audacious and feral on his lips.

“Yeah? We’ll see about that,” a pause. “So, I can... still come, right?”

“If you want to.”

“Of course! Um... o-okay.”

Misaki doesn’t find the silence that follows unsettling at all, because the next thing he hears sounds like _is this_ _happiness_.

“Thanks.”

He wants to believe his eyes aren’t deceiving him when he sees a fascinating shade of pink on the tip of Saruhiko’s ears, realizing he likes it, a lot.

“I-I’ll try to come! If I finish up earlier, okay?”

“Okay.”

Saruhiko’s hand is warm.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“W-well,” Misaki mutters when he locks the door and lets his skateboard fall to his side, “welcome home.”

“Yeah,” Saruhiko murmurs, cupping Misaki’s face into his hands. Misaki’s lips are unusually soft against his, and taste like, _yeah, home_. “We’re back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments and kudos! Oh my god you're great ♥


	5. Unbreakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone pays a visit to an old friend.

**They are only humans, but, sometimes, Misaki looks _unbreakable_.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

Until the very end, Misaki's positivity and confidence remained unbroken.

 _Hope._ That is one of the things Saruhiko believes he could never understand about him.

He wouldn’t say they had exactly a _terrible_ life; it could have been worse, even if Misaki’s curriculum seems to be made of bruises, cuts and blood trickling down his upper lip—quite the masochistic life for someone with such a naïve heart.

“You have everything you need?” Saruhiko asks from the couch, while Misaki finishes lacing up his sneakers—black laces that match his black baggy pants and sweatshirt.

“Yeah.”

“Keys?” Saruhiko wants to make sure, and Misaki maneuvers the bunch of keys out of one of the pockets of his pants, swinging the key ring around his index finger before returning them back inside. Saruhiko eyes him for a couple of seconds and lets out a sigh, “Wait here,” before disappearing into their room to return with a scarf he loops around Misaki’s neck. It's one of his, because Misaki still claims he never needs them. “Take this,” he glances at Misaki’s eyes when he doesn’t meet any resistance from his words or actions—or lack thereof. “It’s cold.”

“Okay. Then... I’m going.”

“Take care.”

It is that time of the year in which Saruhiko knows Misaki is going to hurt, yet he still lets the Sunday afternoon take him away for a few hours, guide his steps and escort him to HOMRA, where he will meet with the rest of his comrades; a ritual that hasn’t changed in six years.

The date is December 19, and just like they did with Totsuka-san two weeks ago, everyone will pay their respects to the late Red King.

\- - - - - - - - - -

It surprises Misaki a little that his voice comes out as lively as ever and that he has enough vigor in his body to plant a clean foot to Kamamoto’s backside as soon as he sees him walking through the doors of the bar.

“You’re late, Kamamoto!”

It doesn’t hurt that much, but it makes Kamamoto wince anyways. “Y-Yata-san, give me a break!” he moans and glances at his surroundings —almost misses Anna sitting patiently on the couch, because the dark leather melts with the black fabric adorning her skin—, looking for something to atone his fault with. “The rest of the guys aren’t even here yet!”

“I don’t care. I’ll kick their ass, too.”

Kusanagi-san interrupts them, “Well, ‘s still early, so let’s wait a little bit. Want anythin’ t’ drink?”

“Oh! Some juice— _ngh_!” Kamamoto’s enthusiasm earns him a jab in the stomach for reacting first.

“Don’t be so carefree, idiot!”

“A glass of... w-water, please.”

Mildly satisfied with his lesson, Misaki takes a sit at the wooden counter. On the other side, the bartender polishes a glass with a cloth and studies him, and with a warm-hearted smile, he asks, “How’s Saru doin’?”

Misaki looks up at the man who would never spoil him _too much_ , who would never hesitate to exhibit the immaturity of the reckless actions of those under his wing and welcome them to the real world, where harshness awaited, but also felicity, _somewhere_ , and the premise of a better tomorrow. And when Misaki thinks of Saru, a tender smile makes its way across his lips, because he doesn’t know if he has been living life to his fullest, but knowing what to respond when someone asks about _him_ —he can be certain when he says, “He’s fine.”

If it’s not happiness, he swears it _is_ close enough.

“Go tell that boy ‘hi’ for us later, ne?”

Misaki smiles sheepishly, because, _yes_ , he can do that.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The humble graves they had made years ago are always there; two big stones, the Red King’s next to Totsuka-san’s, among many others, camouflaged in the rocky shoreline of the beach they use to hang out every summer, far from the touch of the curious and the waves of the ocean.

Kusanagi-san’s feet move forward first to light an incense stick he later presses into the sand. He then steps back to where everyone is grouped and lets his palm caress Anna’s hair—he has to lift it, a little higher every year, to reach the top of her head, because Anna has grown so much, and she always looks taller when she wears black and the dark silk and ribbons embrace her immaculate skin.

Everyone is there. The sullen expressions are there, too, but only temporarily, because when Anna steps forward to place a small stone tray with flowers in front of the graves, everyone slowly lets the sorrow dissipate to smile warmly and contently; Misaki tries, too, but he can’t bear to inhale the incense anymore. He doesn’t even know what kind of flowers those are, except that they are red and thornless.

His throat stings as he hides his face in the scarf Saruhiko gave him, damping the fabric with his tears, while Kamamoto, who is loyally standing next to him, pats him gently on the shoulder.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki’s voice is soft when he announces himself, “Saru? I’m home.”

It takes him a tip of his head to see Saruhiko is home, too, sitting on the couch, staring back at him while a few voices coming from the TV make up for the silence. Despite the distance, a couple of meters between each other is all Saruhiko needs to recognize Misaki’s taciturn aura.

Misaki’s eyes are red and heavy when he arrives. Saruhiko knows he’s been crying, but doesn’t comment on it; Misaki knows better, after all. He knows he cried two weeks ago, too, when it was Totsuka-san, and that he held back his tears for the sake of Anna’s birthday.

“You’re early,” Saruhiko states simply—doesn’t need to pry into what Misaki doesn’t feel like telling him.

“Ah... I’m tired,” once his shoes and bag lay on the floor and the scarf on a table, Misaki walks up to the couch, finding a spot to let his body flop against Saruhiko’s side. “What’re you watching?” he asks by reflex, even though he isn’t really interested to what Saruhiko randomly picked to fill his absence with, nor is he really expecting him to respond. “Kusanagi-san asked about you. They say 'hi',” he keeps talking, “It was a nice day. Sunny, hah,” he laughs airily, and Saruhiko lets him go on, aware of the fact that he is unusually talkative, or still anxious. “They said it was gonna rain—I mean, really, _rain_.”

 _Could have fooled me,_ Saruhiko thinks, _if you hadn’t dried your face before coming in._

“Hey, Saru?”

“Mm?”

Misaki’s hand clenches into a fist he rises above their heads, pointing at the ceiling. “I... I always hated it when people told me I couldn’t do something. I always felt I could do anything, you know. But... in the end,” a pause, “I could never protect them. Back then, that meant I had to try harder,” his fist falls to his side, “That’s what I thought.”

_Isn’t that what you still think, though?_

There’s a part of Saruhiko that wants Misaki to stop; stop being so strong; stop taking all the pain for himself, for he can’t take all the pain in the world, no matter how strong he wants to be—just _wishing_ for it isn’t _enough_. He can’t test how far he is able to get and how much pain he is able to endure before breaking over and over again—just _stop_.

“I mean—”

Saruhiko manages to dismantle the increasing rage and turns to cup Misaki’s cheek, and with a gentleness he would have never thought he would own, a softness he has been able to summon and control during the past months, he brushes a thumb over the corner of one of Misaki’s tired, reddened eyes, and the redhead has to blink reflexively when the intrusive digit caresses his eyelashes. He then leans closer, fixing his obscure eyes on Misaki’s, until Misaki is melting under that powerful, hermetic gaze Saruhiko is so known for.

Saruhiko notices Misaki’s doubt —holding back his words, for the fear of mentioning HOMRA, of bringing up the past, perhaps— but he would rather have all of that, including the Misaki who always blurt out his feelings with a blunt honesty, than sway on the edge of Misaki’s hesitation and reticence.

“We can _talk_... about it,” he reassures him, but Misaki stays silent, and he rephrases his words when he doesn’t get an answer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Misaki blinks, thinks about it for a moment, “Nah... I’m fine,” and while the half-smile slightly tugging his lips looks nowhere near _fine_ , Saruhiko accepts it anyways.

Nudging his shoulder up against Saruhiko’s hand, Misaki nestles the side of his face into Saruhiko’s palm. Saruhiko then slides it down his neck, letting it rest there for a couple of seconds before dropping his hand between their laps with a sigh.

“You haven’t changed.”

“About what?”

“You don’t want to say it, but you still think you’re invincible.”

Misaki blinks once more, before correcting him, “ _We_ are,” and lays his head on Saruhiko’s shoulder, “aren’t we?”

Are they? They are humans. There’s only so much even someone like Misaki can take. Maybe they weren’t born for that. Maybe they weren’t born to keep fighting endlessly.

“Who knows—”

“No!” Misaki cuts him off, his voice loud enough for Saruhiko to stare at him with perplexed eyes. “ _We are_!” he exclaims, the trembling in his jaw and lips is too strong to let him form coherent words, and turns his body to bury his face safely into the warmth of Saruhiko’s chest. “Saru, too—you too, you hear? After all w-we—”Misaki chokes on the unfinished syllables tumbling out of his mouth, finding exhausting to join them together to give them any meaning at all—but it’s so hard, _so hard_ and exhausting when he himself doesn’t know what to say.

He can only hope Saruhiko understands, and when his fingers find the strength to curl into Saruhiko’s shirt, he breaks down in quiet, almost soundless sobs, repeating, “W-we have to— _we can_. A-after all... I thought you’d be gone. W-we’re not insignificant—why can’t you see that!”

Misaki—who forced himself to grow up too fast; who desperately wished to stop wearing the shoes of a kid and believed they could do great things; who wants to believe that, deep down, Saruhiko still thinks the both of them, together, are as unbeatable as the incandescent will that those two untainted kids once possessed.

Saruhiko understands, that Misaki wants to pulverize the negativity in his life —which is no longer _his_ alone, but _theirs_ — and replace it with premises of hope, and goals, and dreams. But that is something Saruhiko would learn to value with time, and slowly.

Until then—

“Misaki,” Saruhiko murmurs his name and waits for Misaki to look up at him. “You’re the most persisting little bug I know,” he admits, and it’s an insult that slowly, very slowly, draws a smile on Misaki’s lips, even with the fatigue obfuscating his eyes.

“That goes to you too,” Misaki retorts in a hoarse voice, and wipes the dampness on his cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re insufferable.”

A smirk, “Then I prefer the term ‘unbreakable’.”

“You _unbreakable_ ," Misaki drawls, the playful tone deliberately mocking Saruhiko’s choice of words, "bastard."

Saruhiko doesn’t miss the chance to retaliate, “That goes to you too.”

And perhaps, if he repeats it enough, he might start to believe it.

And perhaps, the day he looks back and remembers the past and his lonely and broken reflection, and sees the present, and Misaki standing next to him many years after that, he might realize how unbroken their fate and bond really were.

He might realize  _that_ is what Misaki calls hope.


	6. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misaki doesn’t like Saruhiko’s knives.

**Misaki thinks Saruhiko is _obsessed_ with his knives.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki sits on the couch, legs crossed as he nervously flips through the many channels on TV, and fails to find that one distraction he’s begging for, despite knowing he’s never going to find it there. And he hates the fact that, maybe, he would like Saruhiko to invest a little bit of that dedication flowing through his hands right now to _him_ rather than those metallic minions of hell—also known as knives.

It’s irrational —illogical?— to want to admit such thing; Misaki wouldn’t want to be subject of something as twisted and creepy as an _obsession_ , after all, but he finds the scene before his eyes to be rather disturbing to really care about details and definitions.

“No.”

“Yes, you are,” Misaki insists with a scowl.

Saruhiko is sitting at the other end of the couch, expressionless as ever, but —in Misaki’s eyes— utterly concentrated and focused on his task, carefully polishing the blade of one of his throwing knives with extreme delicacy with some old rag. His gaze never falters from the gleaming surface that reflects itself haughtily in his steeled eyes. And thank God he isn’t using some ‘special fabric’ or treatment or anything of the sort for his little ritual, or Misaki would have lost his mind. Nevertheless, the old cloth in his hands is embedded with the remains of some metal polish that had inevitably impregnated in its threads over time; Misaki recognizes the smell, and it doesn’t make him lose his mind, but it does makes his nose wrinkle in displeasure.

“I’m not _obsessed_ , Misaki. You’re overreacting.”

 _Yeah_ , Misaki does exaggerate a lot sometimes, but there’s no way he can distract himself. He can’t stand having Saruhiko cleaning his knives in front of him. Next to him. Whatever. Weapons shouldn’t demand that much attention, he thinks.

“Th-then why do you... they’re already clean,” he stammers, because _of course_ _they fucking are_. Anyone would be able to notice the almost blinding brightness radiating from the poisonous steel, but it doesn’t look as if Saruhiko does, or even wants to.

“Mm,” Saruhiko hums and actually stops for once, considering Misaki’s words and checking the state of the silvery edges, but it doesn’t seem to be enough, because three, four, five seconds later he’s insisting and resuming his labor, because, _no_ , they aren’t all that clean, there are stains only _he_ is able to see, and it only serves to agitate Misaki even further. “No one’s going do it for me, you know,” he responds.

That’s why it _is_ unsettling, because when he does, Misaki assumes Saruhiko has been _using_ them. It’s the most logical explanation possible, and didn’t Saruhiko complain about how illogical Misaki sometimes was?

There are reasons why Misaki didn’t like logic that much.

“Do you, uhm...”

“What?”

Misaki swallows the lump in his throat; as much as a voracious fighter he is, coping with the fact that Saruhiko actually fights with those knives, buries them deep into the flesh of someone —anyone— isn’t as easy as he had imagined. Violence was alright; punches and scrapes and bruises, _whatever_ , but he still didn’t fancy Saruhiko drenching his hands with blood, whether it was his own or someone else’s.

Which is a stupid thought, pure hypocrisy —Misaki _knows_ —, considering Saruhiko’s job, Misaki’s nature and both of their pasts.

But still.

“You... use them?” Misaki gathers the courage to ask and Saruhiko lifts his head, his hands coming to a halt as his eyes stare fixedly at the redhead, unknowing of where Misaki is going.

He allows himself a long pause before answering, “Sometimes,” he breathes out, and with an inscrutable reply comes an inscrutable expression, so Misaki is obliged to rephrase his inquiry, because Saruhiko is being too ambiguous and his words mean too little.

“No, I mean... today,” Misaki clarifies, “or... yesterday. That’s why you’re cleaning them, right?” Saruhiko listens intently as Misaki glances down at the knife between his deft fingers. “Because you... you used them before with someone and...”

“Why do you think so?”

“I-It’s... kinda obvious if you think about it,” he waits a couple of seconds before his eyes are seeking Saruhiko’s. “Well?”

What may be as unsettling as the whole issue about the knives’ cleaning procedure is the silence that follows Misaki’s statement and the fact that he can’t read Saruhiko’s expression, and he’s therefore unprepared when Saruhiko sets the blade on the small coffee table opposite the couch and leans back, resting an elbow on the back, and motions Misaki to move closer.

“Come here,” he utters.

“Hah?”

“Come.”

Misaki’s eyelids are half-closed and a weird grimace tenses his lips, but he complies, reluctantly at first, albeit more relaxed since the knife is out of Saruhiko’s reach, and sight, and _attention_ , so he crawls closer to him, slowly. However, Saruhiko’s movements are faster, and he pulls Misaki by his arm to wrap his own around his evident restless frame and rest his chin on top of his head.

“Saru—”

“Misaki,” Saruhiko begins, momentarily closing his eyes and breathing in Misaki’s scent, which easily overpowers whatever stinking, oxidized smell that may linger in the air. “You’re so weird when you use your head.”

“Hah?!” Misaki screams ever so loud that Saruhiko can feel his high-pitched voice vibrating through his chest, but despite Misaki’s vigorous reaction, the sarcastic remark doesn’t affect him like it normally would, because Saruhiko had just admitted he was _right_ , hadn’t he? “W-wait—so it’s true?! When did you...! Who did you—”

“ _Wrong_.”

“Huh?” Misaki stares at him wide-eyed, expectantly and silently demanding him to continue, but Saruhiko stays silent and a part of him wants to laugh because he sometimes doesn’t get Misaki’s issues with life.

“How is it any different from a sword?”

Misaki frowns as he nestles the side of his face into his chest. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, shifting his eyes, only to notice the so-persistent knife resting on the little table is right in his field of vision, and he lets his gaze drop to the floor. “I don’t know.”

Misaki doesn’t really know the difference, but there’s something about envisioning Saruhiko clenching his fingers around those knives that has nothing to do with the boy that covered his back back when they were just two _almost_ innocent boys. It doesn’t please him either that, back then, it was _together_ , _stand-by-my-side_ and _awesome_ , and now it seemed to scream _danger_ and _watch out_ and _some high-class Strains have gone rampage and we, SCEPTER 4, are going to need our best men to take them into custody by any means possible_ ; it didn’t help that Saruhiko incidentally happened to be one of their best cards and that they weren’t willing to give him up anytime soon—not that Saruhiko was even held up against his will, either.

It’s just that—

_How much of a mess does he have to get into to resort to his knives to get the job done?_

_Did he use them to defend himself? To immobilize? To harm?_

_Did Saruhiko kill anyone yet?_

_Would I notice if he did?_

Misaki doesn’t know since when he started to breathe sighs of relief when Saruhiko called home to say he got paperwork to do and hence was going to be late, but he found he liked it better the more Saruhiko stayed in his office and the less he was out on a mission.

“Nothing happened,” Saruhiko sighs and reassures soothingly, interrupting Misaki’s thoughts as he absently rubs his hand over his back, “Misaki.”

“Really,” Misaki whispers.

“People run when they see them.”

“Really—HAH?! R-really?”

“Really.”

Saruhiko’s statement makes Misaki turn and look at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“You’re lying.”

“Yeah.”

“Saru! I’m serious!”

“Don’t worry about it. I haven’t killed anyone if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“I’m not—”

“At least not yet.”

“ _Saruhiko._ ”

“And I’m not obsessed with them.”

“O-okay... I’m glad.”

“Of course you are. You want all the attention to yourself.”

“I don’t—not like that!”

“Hm. Fine with me.”

Misaki leans against Saruhiko’s chest once more, but has to wrinkle his nose again.

“You reek.”

“Hm.”

“Of rust. You’re not going to bed smelling like that.”

“Yeah.”

“Take a bath.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Yeah. Come with me.”

“Hah?”

“You smell as bad as me.”

“I don’t—” he protests, and luckily for Saruhiko, yes, he smells. “Whose fault do you think it is?!” Misaki yells as he reluctantly gets up. “Take that away,” he orders, pointing at the knife on the coffee table.

Saruhiko’s eyes follow Misaki’s figure until he walks into the bathroom.

“Yeah, and don’t start without me, Mi—sa—ki~”

“Don’t _yeah_ me and do it!” Misaki’s exasperated voice bounces off the tiles.

There is a little twitch of a smile tugging Saruhiko’s lips as he suppresses a laugh and arranges everything in place, and follows Misaki to the bathroom.


	7. Eternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eternity is futile. They are not fifteen anymore. However...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is horribly late but hey Happy Sarumi Fest #2015! ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

**_Eternity_ ** **is a long time to be alright with everything it implies.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

Eternity is feeling Saruhiko shift on the bed and taking Misaki’s mind back to ten years ago.

“Hey—you’re havin’ a nightmare?” The fifteen-year-old Yata mumbles with heavy lips and a drowsy tongue. In the midst of the blurry state fogging his somnolent eyes, he wonders why Fushimi is suddenly clinging to his back. For some reason, Fushimi has found enjoyable, bearable even, to twist his fingers around his best friend’s shirt with no shame or disgust whatsoever. And so early in the morning, right before getting up to go to school.

_Why is Fushimi in my side of the bed?_

_Did he fall off the bunk?_

Fushimi’s forehead pressed right where Yata’s spine meets his neck is the closest it feels to a hug.

_Let’s just stay like this forever..._

_... forever?_

Yata’s brief moment of doubt is gone, as if that last wish at the back of his mind had shaken him awake, and he remembers that in his twenty five years he has found nothing that lasts an eternity. The momentary surreal state is enough to fool him for some seconds, because _if_ the ephemeral bit of past he envisioned was to be eternal, if time had frozen the moment the Fushimi from his dreamscape embraced his past self, Misaki wouldn’t be able to feel Saruhiko’s chest pressing firmly against his back, or Saruhiko’s leg between his, or Saruhiko’s breath tickling his nape as those lips brush against the thin fabric over his shoulders. And then, Misaki realizes they are not fifteen anymore.

“Saru?”

How does this man not manage to have morning breath, Misaki doesn’t know; perhaps it has something to do with his diet, even if the redhead does his best to get him all the different types of food he needs and—

“ _Ah_ —f-fu—!” he finishes the curse in his mind, and realizes that Saruhiko bit him.

_Ha. Typical._

Figures someone who insists on feeding on meat only would have such stupid pointy teeth.

In his dozy condition, Misaki notes that Saruhiko’s incisors latch onto his shoulder and not his neck like some freak vampire—the fifteen-year-old redhead would have let his imagination run wild, thought his friend became some bloodthirsty creature of the night. It still doesn’t stop the present Misaki from wincing at the cold breeze running down his spine and Saruhiko’s tongue tracing sluggish circles around his skin before claiming it between his teeth once more.

They are not fifteen anymore.

“D-don’t bite,” he manages, and the simple request seems to be enough. Saruhiko stays still for a moment, but after a pause that last too little, his fingers are tracing devious lines beneath Misaki’s shirt and over his belly, and lower, until they slide under the hem of his sweatpants, and the anticipation cursing Misaki’s body is too vivid to ignore. The sudden pleasure of the goose bumps that Saruhiko’s touch leaves in its wake is too strong to make Misaki want him to actually stop.

“S-Saru,” Misaki breathes out as he clenches his hands into fists and his brain subconsciously nestles his body back, against his boyfriend’s chest and thighs, and he tries biting his lip to both fight the somnolence —not really necessary at this point— and to attempt to negate the fact that he _is_ seeking for more, more of that heat against his spine, more friction between their waists, more of that idiot who initiates things at the most unexpected times.

The little knots of heat pooling in his stomach, the teasing hand that never quite _touches_ him, are all starting to get uncomfortable.

“Stop, idiot—do something or I—” he words a threat driven by contradictions and doesn’t know how to conclude it, but when he voices it, he knows there’s a smirk stretching Saruhiko’s lips before even hearing the insolent ‘ _Heh’_ the other breathes against him and that hits the shell of his ear. And then, he hears Saruhiko respond, voice defiant and smug.

“Which one is it?” his louse of a boyfriend drawls, now against his cheek, and Misaki can actually feel the lethargy in the way those words hang on the edge of that wicked tongue. “What are you going to do,” he continues; even with that languid pace, Saruhiko still seems to have the upper hand anyway. “Mm, Misaki?”

 _Something. Anything. Or nothing._ He isn’t sure. Perhaps he’d ask him to just stay like that for as long as they can while he pretends he isn’t succumbing to whatever Saruhiko is attempting to do beneath the sheets.

Yeah, they could stay like that for eternity. It feels good enough, their bodies fitting perfectly against each other, even if Misaki isn’t quite getting the skin-to-skin contact he wants.

What kind of unique expression would Saruhiko end up stuck with for eternity? Probably one with a pair of expressionless and uninterested eyes, thin lips and any grimace that would be too far from giving even a little hint of a smile. And what other faces would Misaki miss? What other faces would he _not_ draw out of him?

Eternity sure is a long, long time.

Misaki doesn’t realize time still tends to pass even when one is lost within the own thoughts, until Saruhiko speaks again, seemingly taking Misaki’s stillness as his answer.

“I thought so,” Saruhiko responds to himself with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction, unaware of the redhead being too caught up in his imagination to give an actual reply himself.

_You thought so, huh._

Good thing that what they did not communicate through words could simply be shown —screw staying like that forever.

There's a slight _tinkle_ before the alarm on Saruhiko's phone starts ringing.

Just as Saruhiko’s arms uncurl from around his body and he leans back, apparently to get up, Misaki’s patience reaches his peak as he detaches his body from the memory of his lingering warmth and turns to roll over, trapping his boyfriend between the mattress and his looming body. He’s satisfied when the traces of amusement slowly vanish from Saruhiko’s expression to turn into what he believes to be a bemused look. It isn’t enough, though; he knows there’s still a glint of self-sufficiency in those eyes.

“You’re annoying,” Misaki says.

Saruhiko’s smile falters temporarily, but before long it twitches up again at the corners, an eyebrow rising in curiosity. “My bad. Am I in trouble?” he asks condescendingly.

Misaki frowns, but now that he is awake, he feels bold enough. “I don’t know. You wanna be late today?”

Surprisingly, there’s a slight crease forming in Saruhiko’s forehead at that.

“I can’t.”

Saruhiko’s body gives a jerk when Misaki squeezes the side of his waist, silencing him, and immediately leans down to kiss him, stifling the low moan still reverberating in Saruhiko’s throat. Saruhiko doesn’t push him away, runs his hands up to clench at Misaki’s shirt instead, his fingers tracing strong biceps.

“Misaki,” he murmurs when they come apart as Misaki places a stray kiss on the corner of his mouth, “Misaki, I have to go.”

Misaki pulls away in a sudden jerk, confusion and something more all over the scrunched lines of his face as he raises a ferocious eyebrow in disbelief. “Hah?! And what the hell was all _that_?”

Saruhiko simply smirks and shrugs his shoulders in absolute indifference, fueling the little spark of irritation growing in Misaki’s chest. “Good morning?” he dares to say, almost _timidly_.

Misaki knows Saruhiko can —and would not hesitate to— stay mad at him for making him rush to work, but when he leans in again and sweeps his tongue over Saruhiko’s lips, Saruhiko pulls him by the back of his head, looping his arms around his neck.

 _Nah,_ Misaki figures, _he’ll be fucking fine._

\- - - - - - - - - -

Saruhiko ends up being terribly late for work. He ends up being scolded by Awashima, too.

When she dismisses him and turns around, his fingers graze over his nape, beneath stray locks of long hair, where the traces of a kiss in the shape of Misaki’s lips are probably turning redder; it isn't eternal, but he doesn’t mind.


	8. Gateway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our gateway.

**_Gate_ • _way_** **/ n. / an entrance or passage that may be closed by a gate.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

“I’m gonna go to the groceries. Wanna come?”

Misaki’s voice brought Saruhiko back home from his slumber, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Guess not,” Misaki added a few seconds later, unconcerned, and judging by his nonchalant tone, Saruhiko concluded he was smiling, apparently finding the situation amusing.

He cracked one eye open just in time to see him grab the bunch of keys that matched his own, and open the door of their apartment — _theirs._ It closed behind his small back, and he was gone.

Saruhiko had a good memory.

He didn’t know why he suddenly remembered the first time he hesitantly walked through Misaki’s apartment’s door. It had been right after being severely hospitalized and the redhead offered to take him _home_ ,or the place he called _his_ —whichever it was, he knew Misaki was the type to associate such concept with human warmth rather than walls and a place to sleep.

Doors were treacherous. For Misaki, they were fun to explore, maybe, to jump into what lied beyond them head first without realizing the consequences. Saruhiko never really cared about doors, walls, concrete, gypsum or wood, except for the surfaces he built around himself, unperceivable to others and invisible even to him, but made up of wariness and frustrations, closed eyes and indifference.

The lingering somnolence urged him to wander around his own mind for a little longer.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki didn’t announce himself when he came back, but Saruhiko felt him, nevertheless. He felt him checking on him first before heading straight to the kitchen and storing something in the fridge, and because he had a good memory, he remembered those petite quirks, from the few times he had drifted off on the couch without Misaki in sight to see him do it.

When he found him, Misaki would stare at him sleep for a moment and walk away, go somewhere else, do something else, and come back to check on him once again. But the second time he did, he’d brush his knuckles gently against Saruhiko’s, purposely avoiding the more sensitive areas of skin, like his face, and even his hair.

Only when he heard Misaki washing his hands, Saruhiko realized how uncomfortable it felt to have fallen asleep with his neck tilted backwards on the back of the couch and brought a lazy hand to his neck, his fingers digging into the flesh of his nape with languid strokes before letting them fall on his lap.

He remained still for several seconds, eyes fixed ahead but staring at nothing at all, when he turned his head and they met Misaki’s body, standing just inches from the armrest, his eyes just the slightest bit wide as he looked down at him with lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t been expecting him to be awake until much later.

“Are you awake?”

“What do you think,” Saruhiko mumbled out weakly.

Misaki squinted his eyes, the corner of his lips twitching up at the retort. “Well, are you hungry? I got some ice-cream.”

“Mm.”

“Come on. You aren’t planning on stayin’ like this all day, right? It’s Sunday.” The second Misaki spun around, ready to go, Saruhiko was quick to take his arm and stop him, a look of genuine surprise crossing the redhead’s face. “What?”

Saruhiko’s grip slid down his wrist to his hand, embracing Misaki’s fingers with his and running his thumb across the rough bumps of his knuckles.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

_Ah, this is it. With this hand, he opened that door._

Misaki still had a puzzled expression on his face when Saruhiko glanced up at him, and the only thing Saruhiko could come up with was, “You washed your hands?”

_Logically_ , Misaki raised his eyebrows questioningly as he stared down at him in confusion. “’f course.”

Saruhiko sighed and pushed himself up from the couch. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has nothing to do with gateways.  
> Saru gets philosophical sometimes, when he’s too tired to use his sarcasm.  
>  _‘With this hand’_ —all I could think about was some movie I can’t remember, but it was hilarious.


	9. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it works...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was kind of meh, so have another one.

**Cause of _death_ : infatuation.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

“Hey, Saru! You’re free, right?”

Misaki’s enthusiasm was evident in his voice as he let his body slump into the empty spot of the couch next to Saruhiko, even when Saruhiko’s apathetic gaze never broke from his phone as he rolled his thumb across the screen.

“Depends.”

“Come _on_ ,” Misaki groaned, “you’ve leveled up enough, right?”

Saruhiko’s head perked up the slightest bit, staring at Misaki from the corner of his eyes. “Why?”

“Let’s have a battle! Three on three. You have enough battery?” Saruhiko simply nodded, and before he realized it, Misaki had left and come back with both of their consoles in his hands. “We’ve never had one before. I don’t even know what Pokémon you have.”

Once they exchanged their respective Friend Codes for the first time, Misaki couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face at the alias Saruhiko had picked for his character, and let out a low snort.

“Hah, that’s some fancy name there.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Shut up. _Yatagarasu_ is a part of me, and you know it.”

Instead of reacting defensively, Saruhiko regarded him with a slight teasing curve of his lips. “Mm, you know about picking _fancy names_ to not use your own, don’t you, _Misaki_?”

It took Misaki a moment to realize what Saruhiko was implying, and he cast his eyes down.

“Shut up.”

Saruhiko simply shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s starting.”

Misaki’s eyes immediately shot towards Saruhiko’s team, inspecting his options with curiosity. He could see why Saruhiko was so unenthusiastic about fighting him. It wasn’t an outstanding team —at least not in Misaki’s eyes—, not exactly bad either. He still didn’t let his confidence blind him, knowing Saruhiko always had a trick under his sleeve. Misaki knew his own team wasn’t all that spectacular either, but unlike Saruhiko, who relied on logic and statistics, Misaki believed in luck, fortuitous acts, spirit and unautomated decisions. All video games had a bit of unpredictability, after all, and he liked that.

Once they picked their respective starting Pokémon, the battle commenced.

 

> _`BlackPleiades is issuing a challenge!` _
> 
> _`Go! Breloom!` _
> 
> _`BlackPleiades sent out Sharpedo!` _

 

“Better luck next time,” Misaki jeered at the advantageous choices that granted him the upper hand, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Saruhiko’s disposition seemed to be as indifferent as ever. However, the twisted corners of his mouth revealed his inner amusement. “A grass type,” he pointed out, tone thick with arrogance, ignoring Misaki’s previous taunt. “You’re so predictable.”

“Huh?”

“Not gonna lie, I expected a Meganium,” Saruhiko trailed off, “or a Bellossom in your team when I first saw it. You don’t disappoint, though,” he raised a perfect eyebrow at Misaki’s perplexity, “Misaki.”

It took the redhead another couple of seconds before his eyebrows came down in a frown.

“Ugh—shut up.” Misaki turned his eyes down once again, muttering under his breath, “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

And so he did, depleting Sharpedo’s life points to zero in two turns after a few effective paralysis-based moves, allowing him to snicker at his opponent’s immobility and imminent defeat, and forcing Saruhiko to replace his defeated Pokémon for his Dragonair.

 

> _`BlackPleiades sent out Dragonair!` _

“Hah! Have you been training? This is too easy.”

Saruhiko didn’t feel the need to answer that, _no_ , unlike others, he lacked plentiful periods of rest but not extra hours of work. This time, however, revenge was on his side, and after a couple of missed moves from Breloom, Misaki lost the battle.

> _`Go! Arcanine!` _

 

The battle got tougher. As Misaki expected, Arcanine’s _Body Slam_ and its subsequent paralysis effect on Dragonair had helped keep a handful of his health points intact for another turn, but not for the rest of the battle, and Dragonair, despite having a fifth portion of his life bar glowing with a alarming red, managed to defeat him in the next turn.

“Ugh, dammit.”

“What, giving up already?”

“In your dreams.”

Saruhiko laughed. “Aren’t you taking this too seriously?”

 

> _`Go! Ninetales!` _

 

_This is it, my last Pokémon. Dragonair’s paralyzed. I can do this._

But Dragonair was able to attack, and just when Misaki thought all hope was lost, he felt his face light up at the encouraging words on the screen that followed soon after.

 

> _`Ninetales avoided the attack!` _

 

“Aw, yeah!”

With that boost of luck, Dragonair was left vulnerable enough for Ninetales to inflict the finishing blow.

“This is it, huh,” Misaki muttered, “one on one, not bad.”

“Mm.”

 

> _`BlackPleiades sent out Deino!` _

“Deino, huh, nice,” Misaki whispered mostly to himself, liking the idea of having a little bit of a challenge on the final match. It was going to be tough for his last Pokémon and its fire-type attacks, but he still had some backup moves, including _Confuse Ray_ , and judging how well his previous status-inflicting attacks worked before, he was certain it wouldn’t hurt to have his hopes up. “Alright, give me your best shot,” he said, never taking his eyes off the screen as he decided on his next actions.

Saruhiko remained calm, his expression unreadable as he uttered, “Alright.”

Everything was settled, and the last round began—

 

> _`The opposing Deino used Attract!` _

—not quite the way Misaki expected, and he barely stopped himself from snorting in utter disbelief.

“Pft—really? That’s cheap, Saru, even for you—”

 

> _`Ninetales fell in love!` _

“What the fuck.”

 

> _`Ninetales is in love with Deino!` _
> 
> _`Ninetales is immobilized by love!` _

“Haaaaaaah?!”

Misaki’s head snapped up instantly to meet Saruhiko’s gaze, eyes wide with a mix of shock and incertitude, and a tiny hint of irritation upon seeing the way Saruhiko’s lips curved into a petite, _almost_ innocent smile.

_Bullshit_ —he could read the satisfaction all over the pores of that face.

 

> _`“What will Ninetales do?”` _

 

“What will it—” Misaki muttered mockingly under his breath as his eyes scanned over the screen, fingers quickly picking his next action, “—attack you, that’s what it’s gonna do.”

> _`The opposing Deino used Attract!` _

 

“What the fuck, Saru?”

 

> _`Ninetales is already in love!` _
> 
> _`Ninetales is in love with Deino!` _

 

“Tch. Don’t think you’re safe, there’s still a fifty-fifty chance—”

 

> _`Ninetales is immobilized by love!` _

 

“Dammit!”

“ _Ah_ ~” Saruhiko drawled, “you’re in love.”

“Shut up. It’s gonna wear off any second now,” Misaki reassured himself, even though he knew it _wouldn’t_ and he had to rely on a fifty-fifty shot of inflicting an attack. It was a matter of luck, really, something that Saruhiko refused to make use of, but seemed to be working just fine for him at the moment, ironically.

Saruhiko glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. “You know it won’t.”

“Yes, thank you, I know,” Misaki cut him off as he picked his next move once again. “I got you now.”

> _`The opposing Deino used Attract!` _

 

“Saru?!” Misaki’s voice rang as a high-pitched whine as he snapped his head to Saruhiko once again. “Are you just gonna keep doing that for the rest of the battle?!”

> _`Ninetales is in love with Deino!` _
> 
> _`Ninetales is immobilized by love!` _

“Ugh—why I can’t attack you?!” Misaki hissed.

Saruhiko let out an airy laugh. “Why, you say. Isn’t it _too_ in love?” he replied nonchalantly, as if the reason were unconditionally obvious.

“This shit is broken. I’m supposed to have a fifty-fifty chance, so why...” Misaki trailed off as he studied his set of moves for the fourth time.

“Ah, it’s love,” Saruhiko insisted.

Misaki flicked his eyes up to Saruhiko’s. “Shut up,” he growled, and looked down, back to the screen, and then up and to his side again, his eyebrows furrowing slightly at the little grin still on those pale lips.

“You wanted a challenge, didn’t you?”

“It’s no fun if you keep using the same dumb move. I can’t even attack you!”

“That’s your problem.”

And so, the next turn began.

“You better not—”

 

> _`The opposing Deino used Attract!` _

“Go to hell.”

 

> _`Ninetales is in love with Deino!` _
> 
> _`Ninetales is immobilized by love!` _

 

Saruhiko let out another breathy laugh, relishing the way Misaki’s actions were rendered useless.

“Deino just wants to be loved, Misaki. Indulge him.”

“You’re cheating! What item is it? Is it some new berry? Is that legal?!”

Saruhiko looked at him, allowing a deliberate pause between them before his lips parted ever so slightly. “It’s—”

Misaki’s eyes squinted in expectation. “Don’t.”

“But you asked.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

“It’s love—”

“ _Shut up_.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

“Huh...? _Aha_! I won!”

“Congratulations,” Saruhiko crooned with a heavy tongue and a languid, utterly unenthusiastic tone.

“How was that, huh?”

The redhead’s grin was met with indifference and a non-committal shrug. “Regular, I guess.”

“Yeah? Well, if you ask me, it looked like you had a plan.” Misaki snorted derisively, pointing an accusing finger at Saruhiko while reveling in his fresh victory. “ _But_ your little trick didn’t work on me after all. There’s no way you could’ve won against me with that.”

Saruhiko studied him silently, his gaze flicking from those amber eyes to his extended hand, and remained still for a brief moment before reaching out to press the back of his fingers beneath Misaki’s wrist, prying the rest of Misaki’s fingers open with his knuckles to join their palms and intertwine their hands together.

It caught Misaki off guard, but he still followed Saruhiko’s lead almost on instinct, flexing his fingers and fitting them perfectly into the gaps between Saruhiko’s knuckles.

“There isn’t?”

He heard Misaki swallow, hard.

The shy blush creeping across his cheeks made everything worth the hassle, the minutes spent playing a game, the seconds spent picking the same dumb move.

If all it took was some Pokémon to die — _well_ , so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love AUs because I get to write sappy Sarus. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> PSA: don’t be a Saru and be nice to your Pokémon. B(


	10. #19 Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misaki could not believe his ears.  
> Good thing he still had his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so I said — you know what, there goes the order of the prompts ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (this is supposed to be prompt #19 but it can be read in any order, so!), plus, this has been sitting in my files for a long while now. Enjoy!

**Those were _tears_.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

Saruhiko was crying.

That was what Misaki immediately assumed when he stepped into their apartment and heard the _sobs_ coming from the kitchen. The lights were on, so he figured Saruhiko was home as well; earlier, but home. The fingers around the bag of rice clenched tighter when Misaki closed the door.

The crying suddenly stopped.

 _Of course._ If Saruhiko was crying, he wouldn’t have wanted Misaki to notice; Misaki knew he just wouldn’t. He himself didn’t even imagine he would come home to behold such sight, but it hadn’t been one of the best mornings, after all. Several hours had passed, but the memory still lingered fresh in his mind.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Twelve hours ago, Saruhiko held an unfortunate pickled vegetable between his chopsticks. “What’s this?”

“What?”

“I’m asking you.”

“Huh... breakfast?” he said, but Saruhiko’s expression didn’t soften. Misaki actually saw it coming, especially when their breakfast consisted of _only_ pickled vegetables. And some slices of pineapples.

“Okay, yeah, I forgot to buy rice on the way home,” he finally admitted, unconcernedly, “and other stuff.”

“You forgot?”

“Damn, I’ve been running all day—I got things to do yesterday, okay? I’ll just get them for dinner.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Hey, you never cook and you don’t hear me complaining about that.”

Saruhiko remained silent. Misaki didn’t even know why he kept talking, but he couldn’t find the self-control to stop. He blamed it on the ruckus from last night —some drunkards started badmouthing his colleagues at work, he almost got himself into a fight, and it was all too fresh and irritating.

“I mean, _yeah_ , I complain, but that’s because you can’t even cut a fucking vegetable without making some face, so you’re not really helping. Besides, what’s the big deal, you probably eat _better_ in that office of yours, anyway.” Misaki didn’t notice the weight of his words until he spit them out and Saruhiko’s icy gaze fell upon him, and it was as if those stupid knives Saruhiko always carried around were about to shoot from his expressionless blue eyes.

He knew his foul mouth had crossed some line, and there was a suffocating silence that he should have seen coming, but Saruhiko abruptly pushed himself up without giving Misaki the time to think of an apology.

“H-hey—”

“I’m not hungry. I’ll be going.” Saruhiko walked past him and it took Misaki some seconds to take in the scene before him.

“W-wait! Saru!” he called, but the blue coat hanging on the hook near the entrance was nowhere to be seen, and the sound of the door closing with Saruhiko on the other side echoed through his ears, and through the now empty room.

“Tch.” Misaki bit his lip. “Idiot,” he muttered to no one.

Saruhiko didn’t touch his attempt of a breakfast.

He didn’t even kiss him good-bye either.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Twelve hours later, Saruhiko was back. Crying. Misaki wasn’t crazy; he could _hear_ him. _Sobbing_. And the guilt made his feet and heart feel heavy.

“Saru?” Misaki murmured as he peered into the kitchen and saw his boyfriend facing the counter. Saruhiko’s body was immobile, his head hanging low, his hair preventing Misaki from meeting his eyes.

Misaki thought he had heard his nose sniffle again.

“Hey, you’re early tonight,” he did his best to keep his voice calm and sympathetic, but got no answer.

Perhaps he had been too harsh on him; in the midst of his stupid and uncontrolled rage he had forgotten Saruhiko wasn’t as almighty as he had fooled almost everyone to believe, and had zero experience with some things, including some of the most basic chores. And feelings, and saying things clearly —but, whatever.

He took a few more brave steps, always keeping a safe distance between them, until the sound of the oil beginning to heat up in some frying pan froze his steps, and the familiar smell that soon lingered in the air shook his senses.

Misaki inspected the room, the utensils scattered on the counter, and pondered the possibility that Saruhiko might have been cooking before his arrival. _Unbelievable_. However, Saruhiko’s eyes were still hidden behind the strands of his hair, and Misaki still felt guilty about their previous argument.

“Saru... you don’t—” Misaki began to utter an apology as he inched closer, a part of him wanting to see Saruhiko’s face and the tears he believed must have been pooling in the corner of his eyes. Saruhiko didn’t _have to_ do anything, really, because Misaki could cook for the both of them. _It’s okay_ , he was still going to complain, but it was not something to shed tears over.

But as he closed the gap between them, his curious stare flicked down, to Saruhiko’s sniffling nose, tensed lips and jaw, and to the fingers clutching a knife.

“—have to... uh...”

And to the slices of some white vegetable gathered on the wood cutting board.

_Is that onion._

“Saru...”

_That is onion._

“Don’t—tell me you’re...”

_That’s onion._

“You... _pft_ — _HAHA-Augh_!”

A sharp elbow hit him right in the gut and sealed his lips, turning his burst of laughter into a wince. Misaki bent his back slightly in reaction, but the euphoric joy bubbling in his stomach was stronger, and he couldn’t help but approach the weeping man from behind and cling to him, fingers pressing into Saruhiko’s stiff shoulders.

“You—you’re making a face again,” joked Misaki, catching his breath as he peeked at Saruhiko’s artwork. “You did that for me?”

Saruhiko remained unresponsive, shaking his shoulders, trying to get them rid of the redhead’s weight, but Misaki was tenacious, so tenacious and contented that he took Saruhiko by the chin, forcing him to turn his head toward him, and caught his pouty lips in a short, smacky kiss.

“I love you so much sometimes.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, right,” Misaki laughed, letting his goofy grin speak for him as Saruhiko elbowed his sides again lamely. “Wow,” he said, taking one last glance at the couple of slices Saruhiko had managed to cut. “They’re so uneven. It’s gonna take a while to cook. You’re awful at this, Saru.”

“I want _tonkatsu_. The meat is in the fridge.” Saruhiko demanded, taking the chance to finally free himself from Misaki’s grip and exit the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah, leave it to me,” Misaki declared cheerfully, ready to wash his hands and roll up his sleeves. “Ah, right,” he said, and waited until Saruhiko was out of sight. “Nice apron.”

He heard Saruhiko slam the apron against the ground with a loud thump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww. Aprons. :)


	11. #17 Vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short and self-indulgent.

**When Saruhiko is late (again), the desire for _vengeance_ is strong.**

\- - - - - - - - - -

There are nights that the bed isn’t big enough, because Misaki’s untamed dreams take over the nerves of his limbs and the frantic movements of his arms become a unique form of expressionism, turning the mattress into a canvas he paints on with improvised kicks and sudden jolts. Sleeping with the redhead can be painful, but not enough to bruise.

There are other nights that Misaki takes a ridiculously long time to turn the TV off and rise from the couch. He doesn’t want to, but he does get tired, and one last glace at his wrist watch tells him he can’t keep postponing the future any longer, and when he finally walks into the empty room, he doesn’t sprawl out in the bed exaggeratedly, but curls up instead, dragging the thin sheet up with sluggish fingers to cover his tiny body, because the absence makes the world bigger. And, sometimes, he’d like it to be smaller.

He warms up almost instantly —always does— and it _sucks_ because he wants some idiot’s ridiculously cold body to counter his body heat with. But there’s little he can do, because he knows certain idiot that’s supposed to counter such emptiness is being subject to ‘one of those nights’ again.

\- - - - - - - - - -

There are nights that the tedious paperwork and the most incompetent people from one of the most important organizations in the nation —who can’t write proper reports— prevent one of SCEPTER 4’s most prolific officers from being home in a decent hour.

What point is there in being the most of the most of the mostest if they couldn’t let go of one single person before a Saturday midnight? _What a bunch of idiots_ , Misaki would think.

Saruhiko’s current and only company is the typing of his fingers, a pile of reports supposed to be submitted two hours ago, and the signature clicking of his tongue getting louder —as if nourishing the sound to make it audible enough to cross the walls and be heard by what’s left of his subordinates, and to telepathically order them not to leave any crumbs between the pages, _fucking please_. It’s unhygienic.

But the so awaited moment comes, and Saruhiko lets out a sigh as he stretches his arms. He doesn’t waste any more time, and as soon as he makes sure the screen on the laptop turns off —he’s cautious as ever, even when he doesn’t want to be— he rises from the chair and rushes out of the luxurious hall with only the click of his heels echoing through the walls of the ghostly corridors, and when he’s finally out, he lets his presence be known by the security guards on the main gate before heading home at a steady pace.

Ten blocks under the autumn breeze, and then he reaches their apartment complex, and when he finally, _finally_ steps inside, the main room is empty, somewhat cold and silent, but he knows where to find its counterpart.

He leaves his boots near the doorstep and doesn’t waste time showering; he does make a quick stop to the bathroom to wash his hands though, eliminating the unfortunate residuals of blue ink smeared between some of his fingers. They’re colder than before. _No matter_ , Saruhiko thinks, they won’t be for much longer.

When he leads his silent feet into their room, it doesn’t surprise him to find the redhead exactly like he imagined him to be, but the scene still lifts his lips into a smirk as he strips off his coat and the rest of his garments, replacing them with a regular long-sleeve shirt. He’d change into a pair of sweatpants, too, but his body will warm up soon.

Besides, he can see the outline of Misaki’s boxers beneath the sheets. Fair is fair.

One of his knees sinks into the mattress, and he knows Misaki can feel him, climbing onto the bed.

“Sa... ruhiko?” the redhead manages, his voice drowsy, half-awake.

Saruhiko shifts slowly and finds his spot next to the redhead’s sleeping frame, facing him as he lies on his side and running his hand through the copper strands of hair reassuringly —it’s warm against his fingers—, and once their skin _touch_ , it begins.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Misaki assumes Saruhiko already assumes that his boyfriend has the fucking right to wrap every limb of his body around him and not _let go_. It doesn’t matter how suffocating it feels, how poor their blood circulation is. It’s that idiot’s fault, anyway. Besides, Saruhiko is strong. Saruhiko has learned to endure.

Misaki’s thigh presses between Saruhiko’s own, his lethargic arms snaking sleepily around his torso, trapping Saruhiko in an embrace he can’t escape from. It’s a retribution he has well deserved, after all, and Saruhiko accepts it as his chin brushes the redhead’s hair, smelling freedom despite the lack of air.

It’s a dish best served cold, they say. Misaki agrees, because Saruhiko’s _cold_ against his warmth reassures him; he recognizes that cold and that body. _He’s here_. _About damn time, nerd._

“I can’t breathe.”

Misaki recognizes that gloomy voice, too.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Saruhiko endures, is used to this, and accepts the blissful, little punishment with relish and something warm fluttering in his chest.


End file.
